Mimi’s Corner: Fumblefingers and Sour Notes

When I was seven years old, my parents bought an old upright piano, and I was soon ready to learn to play something other than “Chopsticks.” Luckily, a well-respected piano teacher, Ada Clyde Gallagher, lived around the block from me, so I began weekly lessons in her lovely home. If you read an earlier “Mimi’s Corner” in the Gazette, you may have guessed that it was she who gave me my doomed parakeet.

I studied piano with Mrs. Gallagher for about eight years, eventually taking lessons in her studio in downtown Dayton at the Proctor School of Music. I reached a level of proficiency that required more practice time than I had available, with a heavy high school class load and the homework that was necessary. I had no choice but to quit lessons. But I never quit piano and enjoyed playing whenever, and whatever, I wanted.

After I married and had children, my husband surprised me one Christmas by purchasing a used baby grand piano and having it delivered to our house. He had contrived with my mother to have me away from home during the delivery. When I arrived home, I didn’t notice the piano—somewhat surprising, considering that it was the only thing in the living room. We had no living room furniture at the time, managing with hand-me-down furniture in our family room. I was in the kitchen when I heard the sound of piano keys being played. Needless to say, I was shocked to see my two-year-old sitting on the piano bench tickling the ivories! (Major brownie points for that man!)

Through the years, I again let my piano become second fiddle while motherhood, part-time jobs, housework, sewing, tennis, and other activities took my interest and time. I always played Christmas carols in December. However, Christmas music has been an important part of my childhood, with carols around the piano with family and friends. From time to time, I would get some old music from the piano bench and try to play it, with mixed results, and what would have garnered bad reviews. But mostly, the old piano sat mute, gathering dust.

A few months ago, I sat down to play some chords and a scale or two and realized how out of tune the piano was. No surprise there. It hadn’t been tuned since we moved to this house over 30 years ago. But I was disappointed in myself that I had let it get so neglected. I arranged for a tuning, which was accomplished six weeks ago. And now I have been reacquainting myself with my piano, my old music books, and a few new ones.

But playing the piano now is not the same as I remembered it. Somehow, the spaces between the black notes and the white notes are narrower, and the music books are blurrier. Chords that were my good friends are more like strangers. Music that I knew by heart, and played in recitals at the Dayton Art Institute, is barely recognizable. I apologize to my husband, and some neighbors, for the sour notes they must hear all too often. At least the dogs don’t seem to mind.

Nearsightedness, cataracts, and arthritis have combined to make getting to know my old friend again difficult. Difficult, but not impossible. My reading glasses help, but I have no solution for swollen knuckles.

Nevertheless, I have dedicated at least one hour a day to my piano practice and hope to be somewhat satisfied with my effort in a year or two. If not, there will at least be year-round Christmas carols.