Musical Memories: Off to an Un-Promising Start
"She has talent," my piano teacher confided to Mom after I had finished my first year of piano lessons.
I spent the next seven years trying to figure out where my teacher had gotten that idea. I wasn't the worst student in her class. But, I did have a problem ....
I didn't put attention. At least, not enough.
I was the student who opened my book to the wrong sight-reading page. Who spent an entire week practicing the wrong exercise, even though the right one was written in my notes, and never realized till I got to class (even then, Mom had to show me when I -- loudly -- protested that "I never practiced that one!"). When we learned about eighth-notes, my teacher bluntly commented, "Yours look like lollipops." (I had put the stems right into the middle of the noteheads, rather than on the side.) When she gave us a mock-theory exam, I finished first -- due to the fact that it never occurred to me to check the other side of each page.
Oh, yeah -- and when the teacher was running late one day, the other students and I passed the time by measuring who could jump the farthest off her basement stairs and into the studio. Using her crayons as our distance-markers.
OK, OK, this was just in my first three years. Age 8 - 10. Still, I was well aware of the fact that I was not the most observant child in the class -- and yet my teacher claimed I had talent?!
But Mom was looking at things from a different angle. She noted that my teacher was making an income -- apparently a comfortable one -- right from her own basement. If Sarah gets her Grade 10 piano, she reasoned, no matter what happens, she can earn an income -- even if it's a side income -- from home.
In my second year of lessons (age 9), I acquired the usual hatred and nervousness for piano recitals. But it didn't come about the usual way.
Our teacher held her recitals in a large lecture hall with a stage. I was coming on. The boy before me was coming off. I was only focused on one thing: getting to the piano. Subsequently, I wasn't paying attention to where he was.
Yep. There was a head-on collision. Right on stage.
Ooo, was I ever upset! I wasn't seriously hurt, but I was startled, crying, and embarrassed. And I could not be persuaded to get back on stage. My poor teacher -- I remember her anxiously hovering around. Now that I'm a teacher, I can more easily imagine the panic attack an event like that would bring on!
Eventually, after a few other people had played and I had calmed down (somewhat), I was persuaded to play my piece. Dad always laughs at this part of the story and says, "I wish I'd had a video camera." He says that I came stomping across the stage, plunked myself down at the piano bench, and started playing.
I can only imagine the amount of amusement I provided to the audience that day!
I spent the next seven years trying to figure out where my teacher had gotten that idea. I wasn't the worst student in her class. But, I did have a problem ....
I didn't put attention. At least, not enough.
Oh, yeah -- and when the teacher was running late one day, the other students and I passed the time by measuring who could jump the farthest off her basement stairs and into the studio. Using her crayons as our distance-markers.
OK, OK, this was just in my first three years. Age 8 - 10. Still, I was well aware of the fact that I was not the most observant child in the class -- and yet my teacher claimed I had talent?!
But Mom was looking at things from a different angle. She noted that my teacher was making an income -- apparently a comfortable one -- right from her own basement. If Sarah gets her Grade 10 piano, she reasoned, no matter what happens, she can earn an income -- even if it's a side income -- from home.
In my second year of lessons (age 9), I acquired the usual hatred and nervousness for piano recitals. But it didn't come about the usual way.
Our teacher held her recitals in a large lecture hall with a stage. I was coming on. The boy before me was coming off. I was only focused on one thing: getting to the piano. Subsequently, I wasn't paying attention to where he was.
Yep. There was a head-on collision. Right on stage.
Ooo, was I ever upset! I wasn't seriously hurt, but I was startled, crying, and embarrassed. And I could not be persuaded to get back on stage. My poor teacher -- I remember her anxiously hovering around. Now that I'm a teacher, I can more easily imagine the panic attack an event like that would bring on!
Eventually, after a few other people had played and I had calmed down (somewhat), I was persuaded to play my piece. Dad always laughs at this part of the story and says, "I wish I'd had a video camera." He says that I came stomping across the stage, plunked myself down at the piano bench, and started playing.
I can only imagine the amount of amusement I provided to the audience that day!
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