Practicing

I have been trying to practice piano for years. I remember when I was in kindergarten Mom signed me up to take lessons with Freddie Jones, the neighbor boy who played piano. Freddie was tall and lanky with dark hair and glasses. I don't believe I ever actually heard him play, and my lessons with him didn't last very long. But it was the beginning of a life long love affair with the piano.

After my quick stint with Freddie, my appetite was whetted for more. Mom taught me what she knew (she played violin in high school and college), and then I was on my own. Here and there along the way people gave me music, usually yellowed and falling apart books that someone no longer wanted. It didn't matter - I loved trying to figure out the new pieces, stumbling about until something made sense to me and I caught on at least enough to get by.

After we moved from Freddie's little town to the big village (smile), I took about a half year with the ever engaging Mr. Marcucci. He was a short, fat, cigar smoking man with black horn rimmed glasses who insisted on putting his hand on my back and blowing smoke in my face. I wriggled out of that as soon as I could. Creepy. But not enough to sour me on learning the piano.

They didn't offer piano in school, so I studied flute instead, and played in the marching band, no small feat on freezing football game evenings. We marched in the Memorial Day parades every year. Too hard to march with a piano though. Still, I persevered.

One glorious year someone gave me a book of piano pieces that included some Chopin. What ecstasy! My fingers puzzled over just how one was supposed to play such passages, stumbling drunkenly through the runs and arpeggios, but I didn't care. I had no clue how these pieces were supposed to sound, had never heard this music before. The only real music I remember outside of church hymns was once when Mom and Dad took us to hear a concert of Handel's Messiah. I was so young and the concert was so late that I kept falling asleep, and Mom would wake me up and insist that I listen to this treat. I liked it, really I did. I just couldn't stay awake.

As limited as my musical exposure tended to be, I was addicted. I would practice piano for hours where ever I found an instrument to play. Every book of piano music opened worlds of joy for me, and I pounded out melodrama to my heart's content. It was marvelous.

Looking back, I think I must have driven the neighbors and half the town nuts with my incessant repetition of badly performed music. No one could have tolerated that with charity. I am surprised no one ever told me to stop, or perhaps they did and I just didn't hear them.

Well, things don't change much. The boys have taken off for awhile, and as soon as they left, I seated myself at the piano and began playing. First I worked on PrayerSong music, learning the harmonies, figuring out the challenging passages for the singers. But soon the longing inside took over and I opened the piano bench and took out a couple of books.

I started with Mozart - he is great for warming up stiff fingers. Soon I was into Brahms. I cannot play the way I want to. I can hear the music as it was meant to be, as I have heard others play it, ripe with longing and love. I have managed to progress a bit beyond my high school days, but I am nowhere near where I would like to be.

I suppose if I spent the proper time and worked with a proper teacher, I could make some headway. One is never too old for that. But alas! My life has other demands. I am not free to follow my heart. I can only continue to do as I have done for so long - play the music badly, but love it completely.

Perhaps if I am allowed to grow old and my eyesight does not fail nor my finger joints stiffen with arthritis, when my children are all grown and gone and if I actually get to retire, I shall find time and resources to learn to practice enough to play well. Until then, I snatch a hour here and there and dream of what I cannot yet achieve. Someday. Someday.