The Piano Lesson

When I gave birth to my son I had great plans for him. He was going to be brilliant and do all sorts of magnificent things. All I needed to do was wait for him to grow up. Well four, I figured four was going to be the age to start.

There is not much you can do with a toddler, but I will say that I read him books from the time he was very small till he was maybe eleven or twelve years old. I enjoyed reading him books, and would give commentary to him on the literary, social, and cultural merit of any book we read (the world according to me of course). I don’t think my son much cared. He wasn’t speaking English yet. He was more interested in the pictures. Some of my personal favorites were, Little Critter’s These are My Pets, by Mercer Mayer. I loved that book. It was geared toward bedtime (yeah) and the mom was always in the background mowing the yard, trimming bushes, or some kind of work, while the little critter boy introduced all his pets. It reminded me of the real moms in the world who worked as part of our job of maintaining the order of the universe. In fact, I don’t remember my mom being around when I was little, probably because she was busy doing things around the house. I also loved the Bugs in Boxes pop up books by David A. Carter. These were counting books and there would be a different number of bugs on each page, like 8 speedy spaceship bugs, or ten bouncing basketball bugs. These books are pretty much a mess because Harry would pick the bugs off the pages, but I still like to bring them out once in awhile to have a look see and count all the cool bugs.

OK, so when Harry was four I determined he was FINALLY ready to start his path to greatness. Music was going to be just one of many critical skills toward that development and I enrolled him in his first serious music class. I found a piano teacher who was good with small children. She was a teacher at the local elementary school. She was very nice. The first two lessons went excellent, just super, but we hit a major snag on the third lesson. In this lesson the teacher introduced black keys. Harry was also required to use his thumbs for one of the little songs he was learning.

When I picked him up from the lesson that day I could tell she was exasperated.
“He won’t do it. He won’t touch the black keys, and he refuses to use his thumbs. There is nothing more I can do. I have tried really. Mrs. Moore, we won’t be able to go any further.” She was genuinely sad about this. Me too!

“Oh Harry!” I looked at my son. He was smiling, happy, and his usual playful self. “Let me see you play your song…” and he played the whole song, but deliberately missed some notes (I could tell!) because it required a black key or his thumb, just like the teacher had said. Harry smiled at me very tight lipped when he finished. I tried to coax and cajole him. We went back over the song. No use. Resigned to the fact, I gathered up his book and his toys and I promised the woman I would call her. This was a major blow. By mid week I did call her. I had given it a lot of thought and some indirect discussion with Harry, and concluded that lessons were too much pressure for him. He needed to mature.

So again, I waited, and then when he was seven, I figured this was it. I told him to pick an instrument. Its time, just pick something. He picked the drums of all things and I couldn’t change his mind. It was all he was interested in. I had played the flute in band in high school. Flutists, you know the personality, usually sit in the front rows and appear very polite and attentive. The percussionists are always at the back of the band, and from my vantage, goofing off, falling asleep and generally getting dirty looks from the conductor during lessons. In my mind they were juvenile delinquents. I was heart broken. Yet deep down, I knew my son was a was a genius. I knew this because he would do things at school that displayed ingenuity and brilliance at a very early age. Like the time in second grade he forged my name on a note coming home from the principal, mid year, for throwing rocks on the school bus. He had only JUST learned to print. Most kids don’t start doing this kind of stuff till High school. (What gave it away for the principal is that the signature had been printed in pencil and then overwritten in pen. Most parents don’t use a pencil and they don’t print. ) I have other examples of pure genius, which would take too long to describe for mention here, but what was happening was clear. It now became my mission in life, hence forward, to make sure that my son used his powers for good and not evil. Its been rough but I think good is winning.