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When I was a young girl I wanted to take piano lessons. At the time my father worked with someone that explained his wife gave lessons. So, once a week I began going to the Silverman’s house to learn my notes and scales.

At home, I practiced what I had learned from the workbook but couldn’t play without a piano of my own. Understandably, my father was initially hesitant to invest into buying a piano, as it was a big expense and I could easily change my mind. Week after week though, I proved that I truly wanted to learn.

I can still remember the smell of the piano store, my excitement admiring the shiny ivories, and in choosing the right one along side my parents and the salesman.

I practiced every day.

Mrs. Silverman came to our home once a week and drew with different colored markers on new sheets of music. She made sure I wasn’t being lazy with my pinky (that I sometimes tried to be). Don’t rest your wrists! Hold them up!

Each week I was getting big, happy, check marks on successfully completed lessons for a job well done. Then the day came for Ludwig Van Beethoven’s Für Elise. I can still recall the black notes etched importantly, as if poetry, a language of their own. I thought I’d never learn, but in fact I did. Never by heart though, as I did Fiddler on the Roof, Somewhere Over the Rainbow, or my all time favorite, Where Do I Begin from Love Story.

I loved the piano from everything I can remember, and still do. Yet, one day lessons came to a halt.  I was too distracted being a fourteen year old. I didn’t take the time to practice as much. Reflecting back, I wish for my sake that someone would have instilled the importance of continuing my practice, or at the least had been patient with me on the days I was distracted. Perhaps they were, and I simply couldn’t hear the tune of their words with a preoccupied teenage mind.  Today, I might still be able to play as well, or better!

As an adult, I used to sit down at the piano about twice a month to play what I could recall by heart, and of course from reading the music (though rusty).

The last home I moved into had a challenging set of stairs, and I painstakingly came to a decision to give the piano (a gift to me from my parents) away to my goddaughter.  It was the only thing that made sense to me, or that I could find solace.

My hope – is she will learn to play elegantly, and that I may enjoy listening to her while remembering my own young hands – how they once made beautiful music.

Maria DellaPorte ©2016 All Rights Reserved

 

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