On Playing the Piano Again; A Return to the Self

In Honor of my husband, Peter and Mr. Aaron Gross

I wrote a story that begins with the narrator bemoaning the fact that she hasn’t had time to take good care of her piano and play it. She says that it sits neglected in the corner of a room wearing a coating of dust; and this brings on a special kind of heartache, not serious, but an uncomfortable feeling that things aren’t the way they should be. Why? Because musical instruments are more than the sum of their parts. They are alive; they are a life-form all their own. Imagine smashing up cardboard boxes and putting them on a fire when you burn trash; then imagine putting a violin in the fire as well. It’s the same as burning books; evil, life-threatening, hateful.

When I was eight years old my parents managed to scrape the money together to buy a second-hand upright piano. This was after I had been taking piano lessons for a year at school. The culture in which I grew up encouraged self-expression, a devotion to the arts, and development of the whole self, not only in academics. So my mother found a private piano teacher for me; Mrs. Sachs lived six blocks away and to get to her house I had to take a bus. We had no school buses in the Pittsburgh school system; I had never been on a bus without my mother, so I had to walk down our steep hill, cross congested Beechwood Boulevard, and wait for the bus to come. I had been warned repeatedly about talking to strangers. Clutching my piano books, I dropped the 15 cents into the coin box and nervously looked out of the window so no strangers would try to talk to me. Being the book-lover that I am, I fell in love with my new piano books and felt proud just looking at them. They had stiff yellow covers with green writing on the front, including a motto, in Latin, enclosed in a picture of a wreath.

Mrs. Sachs was stern and proud. She had a little boy named Nathan (who grew up to be a doctor.) I was a good student and practiced my three piano pieces every day as she instructed me. Mrs. Sachs made unpleasant comments about her neighbors and friends in between listening to me play; I was never completely comfortable with her. Every year she had a piano recital and all her students played a piece in front of parents, aunts, uncles, and grandparents. An ordeal, true, but you get self-confidence going through something like that. My grandfather was so proud of me that he gave me $5 which I used to buy a book about animal life on this planet.

After four years of studying with Mrs. Sachs I told my mother that I didn’t like this piano teacher; she really was too strict and abrasive. Another teacher was found for me, Mr. Aaron Gross. He had white hair, was a retired musician, and was sweet, full of love for his students. Mrs. Gross, a perpetual housewife, always wore a ruffled apron and stood in the kitchen doorway, wiping a newly-dried plate over and over with a dish towel while I played my pieces, a dreamy look on her face. She told me that I was one of her husband’s favorite piano students because I “was always reaching for the right notes.”

This is a piece of truth that hurts but it’s part of the story of returning to playing the piano. I was a much more serious person in my childhood than I am now. I was passionately devoted to classical music, art, and reading; I loved the children’s concerts that were offered in Pittsburgh once a month—all classical music, of course. I read biographies, books on the solar system, and the human body. Now, I pride myself on being an independent thinker and I don’t follow fads and trends; however, when I read about teenage girls “dumbing down,” putting serious interests and pursuits away in exchange for obsessions about boys, sex, clothes, and parties I realize that was my pattern. In other words, I don’t follow feminist thinking to the letter but to be honest with myself I have to agree that the culture exerts powerful pressure on young girls to conform—and irresistible pressures they indeed are. That’s one of several re-occurring themes in my writing; the loss of innocence that comes too soon, the loss of self, and the seduction that follows into the hotbed of adolescence. When I write about those things, the piano is always a symbol of emotional and spiritual purity. I quit studying the piano when I was 13. Mr. Gross was sad to lose me and told me that if I worked hard I would become an excellent pianist; I had passed beyond beginner playing and was working my way through what he called “the mid-point” level of skill. I had enough talent to break through to the highest level that he could teach. But other voices, impossible to ignore, were calling me. One of my mother’s friends took me aside and told me that I was making a big mistake, quitting piano lessons at this crucial time, but I barely listened.

I bought my second piano when I was about 40. This piano is a console, quite small but just right for this house. I went to the music store in Williamsport, Robert Sides, and bought some new piano music. To my deep joy, I could still read music and play somewhat awkwardly. I did buy an “easy arrangement” of The Eagles’ Greatest Hits because my husband likes the song, Desperado; but my heart will always be linked to classical music. I especially love J.S. Bach’s Prelude in C Major. When I sit down at my newly-polished piano and play it I can almost be 13 years old again.