Piano Lessons

I was thinking the other day about how my parents introduced me to the piano.
They had some friends from New Zealand who were needing to temporarily store their piano . My parents offered to keep it at our house on Cheery Lynn. I was 8. Perfect timing. Now they just needed a piano teacher for me.

Enter - Mrs Arlene Rice. She came once a week and sat next to me on a chair by the bench. I'll never forget looking at her, but not at her eyes. When I looked at her, my nose met her shoulder. That wasn't so bad, but she had the biggest vaccination scar I'd ever seen - as big as a half dollar. That's what I saw when I turned to her. It scared me. After a while, I would just nod and keep looking at the music. She was a good teacher, though. And she liked me. She just had some quirky characteristics that I won't ever forget.
After a year or so, I was progressing and had an interest, so Mom and Dad purchased a piano.

Mrs. Rice lived in Glendale and she would have "study class" at her home every couple of months. We had to car pool and that put me in the back seat of a car with some older kids I barely knew. We were to come prepared to play for each other, clapping politely after each piece. She always had refreshments for us, too. That was nice, until the night I accidentally spilled my red punch all over her front room carpet. Yep. . .

At a Halloween recital one year, she encouraged us to dress up and play spooky music. I don't remember what I played or what I wore. My brother and parents don't either. But we all remember what Mrs. Rice wore. She dressed up like a "fairy" (I think). Maybe there was a dry cleaner close by because she used yards and yards of plastic wrap to wind, drape, pouf, and gather herself in from head to toe. We laughed about that for years.

I took from her for 7 or 8 years. Most of my foundation came from her. I have to give her a lot of credit. When I was in need of a new piece, she would reach into her big bag and pull out an assortment of sheet music and spread them across the piano. Then, she'd play each one and ask me to choose. Those were my favorite days. A new piece!

When I was 16, my brother Jon was ready to take piano. Mom had heard of a teacher not far from us that we could drive to for lessons . Her name was Mrs. Hansen. She was different, also. We weren't taking there long before we learned that her older son had gone to prison. She was a nice lady, and talented, too. (I just had a hard time concentrating, worrying who might walk through her door!) She had a beautiful appreciation for chords. Jazz chords and improvising. I still play pieces she gave me because I was so intrigued with this new chord concept. Jon flourished there, too. The first time I drove myself anywhere after I got my license, was to my piano lesson at Mrs. Hansen's. I'll never forget driving our big white '57 Cadillac east along Osborn Road, hanging a left to go north onto 56th St. and then turning right to go east again onto Indian School.

In my later years of high school, I transferred again to another teacher. Her name was Mrs. Kramer. I could drive to her house, too. She lived on 36th St. just north of Indian School. Mom must have learned of her abilities to teach classics, since that is what I studied with her. I would get to her house and take a seat in her front room next to the lava lamp. I could hear the instruction of the lesson before me while I watched that strange gooey stuff float around into odd shapes. She worked me hard, also. It took me weeks and months to polish off pieces. She would get impatient if I took too long to finish a piece. (She just didn't understand the busy life of a teenager!) One day, as I mastered a piece, I jumped when she excitedly called to her husband down the hall, "Didn't that sound better, honey?" As if he was the secret judge of approval. Where did he come from anyway?

I think piano teachers are a strange breed. They all have quirks. That's what scares me. I'm the teacher now, with quirks only my students can write and tell about me, forever more. Nothing changes. You don't think I notice when I pretend a student is listening to me, when really he hasn't quit looking at my nose for long enough? Oh, I notice. It's a good thing I've been there!

Another strange thing is that the Halloween Recital is my favorite one of the year. You should have seen me the year I bought rubber warts and stuck them to perfect places on my face. . .