Feeling the Beat

The old piano sat in the dining room, taking up more space than there was room for, but when my mother’s cousin, having bought herself a new one, offered her old piano to us, it became a fixture in that dining room until my parents divorced. I have no recollection of what happened to the piano because I never gave it much thought after the age of 8 other than occasionally playing a duet of chopsticks with my sister.

My father was a gifted pianist who could play anything by ear. When our parents had parties, my sister and I would sit at the top of the stairs and listen as people shouted songs they wanted to hear, and he’d make that magic happen.

As a child I would sit on that piano stool, the kind that you had to spin to get to the height you needed to be able to reach the pedals. I was far too short to ever reach the pedals, but I could twirl that seat to get myself situated to put my fingers on the keys. I started tentatively, just one finger here, one finger there wondering what the ivory keys did, and what those long black ones did. Where were the high notes and where the low and what happened right in the middle.

By the age of four, I was able to play simple songs, still just one finger at a time but I’d learned that middle C will take you anywhere you want to go. I had no idea that it was called middle C until later – it was just where that key was placed. By the age of five, as soon as my father realized what I was doing, he insisted that I was ready for piano lessons and he knew just the man, the same one who had taught him and his sisters when they were children. Did anyone think to ask me if I wanted to learn how to do more than plunk out songs with my one finger? Did anyone explain to me what taking lessons would mean? One night a week sitting in a dimly lit room with an old man who would rap my knuckles when I made a mistake.  But off we went. My mother and I of course. Not my father whose decision this was.

This piano teacher had the power to decide whether I was worthy of being his pupil. He listened to me plunk out “Twinkle Twinkle Little Star”. Then he gave me the names of other songs and instead of figuring out where the keys were for those notes, he asked me to tap out the songs on the side of the piano. This I later discovered was to determine if I understood tempo and beat (I had the same type of test in grade six when it was being decided if I qualified for the instrumental music programme at the junior high school I was to attend the following year – I did). After some deliberation, it was decided that, despite my young age, I was considered worthy of his time and attention. At a cost to my parents of course.

We progressed well, for the most part, until it came time to begin reading and writing music. I found it difficult at age 6 to make the shift from just hearing something in my head to being able to understand that those circles and semi circles, some with funny looking squiggles represented the places my fingers went on those keys, and for how long they stayed there. I memorized Every Good Boy Deserves Fudge and learned to draw a treble clef (I liked the art part). And let us not forget sharps and flats.

Practicing became a chore. None of my friends were learning piano and I was missing out on play time. My sister was too young yet to do anything but plunk her hands at random spots on the keys believing she was creating beautiful music. I wished I still had that option.  The day came when I said “enough” that I was no longer enjoying making music. That sitting on that stool and having to spend hours playing the same song until I could almost do it in my sleep had stolen the joy. By the age of eight I had handed in my notice. I realize now, looking back, that there were other factors happening at that time in my life as well that affected my decision to abandon my father’s dream for me.

For three years in junior high school, I learned to play the clarinet. I was able to read the music; write the music for tests and play for every test I was given. Practicing was no longer a chore, and the love of music was reborn. For two of those three years I played in the school band and that included concert performances.  My mother attended them all. My father never bothered to show up.  And by grade 10 when I could continue music in high school, life had changed once again, and I dropped instrumental music.

I wish learning to play the piano had been my own idea, one born from an eagerness to do more than just play by what I could hear in my head.  Although I no longer play an instrument, I still have the music in me. The love of music, of the songs I hear in my head, the beat, and the rhythm of the instrumentals always move me through my soul, my spirit and my feet.