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.
