In a nightly ritual, my sister used to lay transfixed on the couch for hours listening to the sounds as the piano came alive with music. She didn’t know she was listening to the works of great composers; she knew only that I was at the piano and there was nowhere we’d rather be. My musical journey began at age 5 when my father got me a piano. He played the flute and my lessons allowed us to play together. Listening to classical music and opera was routine in our home, and despite broken hammers and notes that didn’t resound on our affordable used uprights (it didn’t help that i once spilled water on the ivories), my abilities grew as I learned quickly. I was a serious and disciplined student who spent hours a week practicing to learn the works of Beethoven, Brahms, Chopin and the other greats. By the time I entered high school I had an extensive repertoire of classical pieces I was always performing for friends and family.
I dearly miss going up in that small house filled with art and music. I miss the central piano, the focal point of living room gatherings where we’d play music and sing, people curled up on the couches to listen and participate. Years later, when I barely have time to practice the upright I bought myself, I realize that I was with one of the greats back then…my Dad.