Do you remember my piano?
At the time of writing, I have owned and loved that instrument for eighty-two years. Hundreds of children have sat on the cushioned bench in my front room and learned to play on that same piano. None of them knew that it only cost seven shillings when we first purchased it. Before them, I too had learned my first notes with Mrs Reynolds. She had been a kind but strict teacher, and she had a heart-shaped birthmark on her forehead, that I would glance at whenever she wasn’t looking.
Before I began giving lessons at home, I had worked hard to make our school's music program as vibrant as I could muster. Our OFSTED school reviews always noted that it was an academic program rich in music. I was proud of my role at the school.
I simply loved the sound of children singing.
To begin a concert, I would sit at the piano and listen to the nervous and excited chatter of the students. Around Christmastime, there would be a childlike excitement in the air. Is there any better part of childhood than those magic days leading up to Christmas? To bring the choir to order, I would simply play one chord on my piano. It would ring out around across the room, like a gathering bell. Slowly as it quietened, so too would the small voices. The chord and the chatter would dwindle to silence, and in that silence, there was a moment of quiet, expectant energy. Nervous smiles.
And then we would begin.
I would always show the children how and why something worked. During my first piano lesson given to countless students, we would take off the piano lid and look down at the taut wires below.
“These thin ones, that look so fragile are the soprano,” I would say, “and these thick ones at the other end. Well, they are the bass clef.”
We would explore the different sounds.
“Look what happens, when you hit a note,” I would say encouraging them to press a key to see the small hammer striking the wire, “this is how it all works.” Their small eyes would widen, as they began to see the inner workings of their small action. This is the start of the learning process. If you want someone to really learn, anything at all, you have to show them how it works first. That is the mistake of so much of our education systems. Children learn things without understanding why, and it all becomes rather superficial.
The backdrop to my lessons at home was always Harold. Busy in the background. After Sue’s passing, he encouraged me to stay active in my passions knowing that it was the only way I would find an ongoing peace. The students were never beyond his sharp, quick wit. Upon arriving home from work, he would head upstairs to change his clothes. Upon coming back down he would listen carefully to the music, his head cocked to one side as though his untrained ear could pick out even the tiniest nuance.
“Well you’ve not been doing much practicing this week have you?” he would say at the music’s end, before disappearing into the kitchen with a wink.
Thankfully the student and the teacher knew him well enough to giggle.
Music and laughter, I say. Two of the most essential ingredients for a happy life.
Lesson 36: We know not when, we know not how, Friday, November 3rd
I enjoyed this one so much.