Piano Lessons

 

 

 

 

Piano Lessons

                                          by Judy

When I was a child I wanted to take piano lessons. That sounds strange I know, a child wanting to take piano lessons?  My parents, though, didn’t think it necessary. We lived in the country, and piano lessons for me would have required a twenty mile trip to town. The cost of the lessons was probably a factor in their decision, too. They did buy me a piano, though, when I was in the second grade. (I’m happy to say, it is still in my home today.) Mother taught me to read music, and my grandmother, who played by ear, taught me some chords and showed me how some notes just sounded right when played together. With my limited musical background, I have still managed to spend many enjoyable hours playing the piano for my own enjoyment.

I was going to take lessons when I was grown. Life happened, though, and soon I didn’t have time or money for lessons. However, I had four kids, and I was determined they were going to take piano lessons—at least two years each. I soon learned it was not a good idea to force a child to take any kind of lesson if he or she didn’t express interest in the subject of the lesson. My older son made that very clear to me.

“Mom, my arm hurts. I think I broke it.”  It was a little unusual for my son to be resting on the dining room floor when he had been climbing a pipe fence just a few minutes earlier. Still, he wasn’t screaming in pain, and I didn’t see any blood. I was visiting on the phone with a former roommate and continued my conversation.

“Mom, maybe you should look at Danny’s arm. He thinks it is broken,” my older daughter said interrupting my phone conversation.

“I will, just as soon as I’m off the phone,” I said with a hint of irritation in my voice. My friend and I only visited by phone a couple of times a year. (It was before the days of cell phones.) An hour later I concluded my conversation and gently lifted my son’s arm, which I admit was resting in a very unnatural position.  Even with my limited medical knowledge, I knew it was broken.

“Now, can I quit piano lessons?” my son asked on our way home from the emergency room. I was feeling some guilt over the telephone conversation, and it seemed the least I could do. Thus ended what might have been a wonderful career in music.

Happily, the doctor did a fine job casting the arm, and there was no permanent damage done. I was hopeful that would be the happy end to the story. Not so. At least a couple of times a year, one of the kids reminds me of that afternoon. I’m hoping I never break a hip and need help from my children.