Musical Memories

The love of music runs deep in my family. My mother was a music major in college, and my dad has played the piano since he was young. I, in fact, am named after the patron saint of music. So it is only natural that my mother started to teach me how to play the piano when I was four. It's funny how well I can still remember the songs that were in my first piano book, especially when I can't remember the name of the person I met yesterday at the park, but music has a way of helping us remember.

When I was nine, my mother took me to a concert. Afterwards, she asked me what I thought of the cello, and introduced me to the man who would be my cello teacher for the next eight years, Mr. F. Every Saturday morning for three years, my mother dutifully drove me to Mr. F's house for lessons. He held the lessons in his studio in the basement, where his little Italian mother also had her apartment. My lessons were often punctuated by the fragrance of Italian food, and I could occasionally hear "Mama" F. talking to herself in Italian. Mr. F himself was a gentle man, knew and understood music well, and it was a true honor to know him and to have learned from him.  After his mother died, he moved to a new house, and my lessons moved to a new day.

I was also dutifully taking piano lessons from my mother. But at one point, when I was twelve or thirteen, Mom decided that we needed to take lessons from someone besides her, and she signed us up to take lessons from the neighborhood piano teacher, Mrs. F. Mrs. F was a very different teacher from my mother. For one thing, she spent much of my lesson listening to me play as she sat in a chair across the room and smoked. I would finish playing my song, turn on the piano bench, and watch the swirls of smoke rise over her head, as she commented on my playing. If I needed help, she would tamp out her cigarette, jump to her feet, and stand next to me at the piano, leaning over me to play. Mrs. F was quite a busty woman, and I would lean away, since if I didn't, my personal space would be invaded by "the girls." Mrs. F would demonstrate the correct way to play, her long nails clicking as she played. "You need to count this like so...'one T and A, two T and A...' "

One summer, the thought of having to walk to my piano lesson in the heat, sit in a cloud of cigarette smoke, and be invaded by strange breasts seemed like more than I could stand. I told my sister that I DID NOT want to go to my piano lesson, and she came up with a "scathingly brilliant" idea. She took her hair brush and hit my arms and legs with it, creating little sores that looked like a scary rash. I showed my mother, who was convinced that I was having some kind of allergic reaction to something, and I stayed home from my lesson that day. The next week, some of the "rash" still remained, so I showed it to Mrs. F, who clucked, "Oh, you poor dear. I hope you're better now."

When I was fifteen, Mrs. F announced to me that she wanted me to date her son, A, when I was sixteen. A was already in college, studying to become a veterinarian. A was not at all appealing to me. For one thing, he needed his mother to set him up with a date! Sometimes when I had my lessons, he would lurk in the wings, staring at me as I played. It felt more and more uncomfortable to go to my piano lessons, and I was dreading turning sixteen. I did not see how I could turn down Mrs. F's request that I date her son without offending her. And for all her idiosyncracies, I did like and care about Mrs. F a lot.

But God was watching out for me. Two things happened that saved me from the dreaded A. For one thing, I started dating a guy from my class named D. For another, we moved, and I stopped taking piano lessons, focusing solely on cello.

I often wonder whether Mrs. F is still around, teaching students, singing to them in her low, smoky voice, her fingernails clicking as she plays. I wonder what happened to A. I hope he found and married someone wonderful. I pray for Mr. F, my beloved cello teacher, who died several years ago. The last time I saw him was at my wedding, when he did me the honor of playing the cello for the ceremony.

My kids are now taking music lessons, and sometimes when I hear one of their teachers count out a difficult passage, I hear Mrs. F's voice in my head, counting along, and I am surprised when I don't hear her nails clicking on the keys.