From The Saddle
The den supported the acoustical overtures for Sunday afternoons. Once it was a double-car garage. Now it is a sprawling carpeted room with bookshelves, cabinets full of vinyl records, glass-doored cabinets with China and Crystal, a television, Dad’s rocking chair, Mama’s sewing table, a 1911 upright piano, and a small prairie of open floor space.
The walls are paneled and the ceiling is covered with white manufactured tile. The room doesn’t exude richness but plainly states middle-class comfort highlighted by Old World heirlooms. It is an event center.
On New Year’s Eve, it’s one of the destinations for the Brunes’ annual 42 domino tournaments. The cavernous space could ac- commodate five gaming tables plus a buffet of snacks. During the week, it’s the after work reposing sanctuary where my parents relaxed watching Lawrence Welk, Dick Van Dyke, Lucille Ball, and then the News before bedtime.
On most weekends after the house has its Saturday morning vacuuming, the den transforms into a lounge filled with record music. Dad’s favorites were Broadway Show tunes. He knew the words to almost every Oscar and Hammerstein song and either hummed or sang along.
It was evident that the music pleased him. But the melodies were not restricted to choruses from plays. There was Sinatra, Herb Albert, Bing Crosby, various symphony orchestras, a hatful of Polka Bands, and countless more. But, it was Liberace that caused me to take notice.
Every person owns their age of awakening. It’s the era that you may consciously recount memories. They may not be daily accounts, and they may visualize as vague questionable dreams. But they are there; quiet and veiled in the hidden folds and recesses of our minds.
Occasionally they step from the mist, or maybe a back bedroom at the end of the hall, to punctuate forgotten lessons. Other times we recall early episodes in the sudden light ofyesterday. I swear there are thoughts branded into my cognizance and molded into my being that were placed there when I was two years old. They were more pronounced by my third birthday and by four they were the policies and standards that would drive life.
It was simple math to imbibe the wine poured by the master concertos as they tickled the ivories, witness the pleasure on my parent’s countenance, and to equate this happiness with the upright piano in the corner.
The obvious decision for me was to tackle that rascal. But it took until I was five before any one heard my pleadings.
Ms. Lillian Reese didn’t want me. She was the logical choice as a piano teacher but… The idea of taking on a five-year-old boy was foolish to her. Boys love to play in the dirt, are never on time, and are fickle.
The notion of starting with a five-year-old was ridiculous. By the ime I’d mature enough to actually learn or show any signs of capability my interests would hift to such garish dumb things as hunting and fishing or horses and girls.
It is beyond my scope of reminiscence whether I was an accomplished liar at such a tender age, or, such a pitifully poor negotiator. But, I was certain that piano playing would go a long way in overcoming my faults that kept me in constant strife around the home place. So, I beseeched Mama to stay after Ms. Reese and made all sorts of promises that were impossible to keep.
Finally, one day in Fehrenkamp’s grocery store fortunes collided and Ms. Reese and I were tossed together. She was strict – and was a straight shooter. I could abide with that, and before entering the first grade Middle C was common ground and the neighboring octaves were friendly territory. That means: The middle 15 keys of the piano, treble and bass, sharps and flats, were mine.
Ms. Reese taught classical music. There were no exercises developing an “ear” for music. There was only the learned ability to read the garbled page shot full of birdshot.
After that it was muscle memory touching keys without looking, recognizing all fashions of notes, and knowing the markings that dictate speed, decibel levels, and whether a piece crescendos and flows, dies cries and whines, or chatters Spanish with a stuttering staccato.
There is also the practical application of something akin to rocket science and quantum physics known as music theory. This will allow a well-practiced player to add notes, accomplish five-fingered chords with both hands, and transpose lyrics to suit off-key vocalists.
Music Theory is hateful to understand and takes some folks years to grasp. Nevertheless, my overall plan was working according to Hoyle.
The twice weekly training at Ms. Reese’s house and the daily practice on the upright piano in the den alleviated some of the focus on my immature shortcomings.
Suddenly I had a gimmick that made me a more worthwhile little boy. Playing for Sunday school at the Lutheran Church was as natural as riding a bike. I thought nothing of it.
By high school, I was playing for three church services a week. In those days, a lot of young people got married soon after graduation. The next reasonable occurrence was to play for my friend’s weddings.
By now I was hammering out Bach preludes and fugues and ripping up a pipe organ the way it was meant to be played. But I was no killer. I’d never be another Jerry Lee Lewis or Liberace. I needed sheet music.
I envied the people like Buddy Prause and his son Russell who could entertain all night with no written notes.
To me – such folks were the epic talented musicians. I was no more than a trained ape.
My eyes saw, brain processed, fingers moved, and hopefully, somebody was made happy.
My only talent was making a taught trade look like a God-given skill.
There are no regrets – only reality.
