The Gift of Music Making

My first experiences with playing music were grammar school lessons. Two years of clarinet in the school band and two years of piano with the Sisters.

Most of us have involuntary flashes of memory when childhood events come to mind. Band brings back memories of laughing in a bright club house room, drool puddles on the floor in front of the woodwind section that you had to avoid slipping in while getting to and from your seat. I recall the dry feel and taste of the reed on my tongue and smell the waxy lubricant used on the cork where your instrument's parts fit together.

Piano memories are very different. Those are of a stark, dim, quiet environment where there was constant ticking, either the metronome or a grandfather clock down the hall. You spoke in hushed tones and there was no laughter in this church like environment. Sister, in full old time nun garb, watched over my fingering ready to smack my hands if I made a mistake (or she was cranky) and wrote notes in my music book with an eternally sharpened pencil in tiny, tiny print.

They are all good memories.

Thanks Mom and Dad for forcing me to practice that half hour each day and pushing me to compete in those clarinet solo events that had me sleepless and stomach sick.

Thanks Grandma C for buying that clunky old upright piano where you would belt out church hymns (I particularly remember Rock of Ages) to your own accompaniment.

Thanks to my teachers who encouraged me, even when using terror tactics!

Thanks to all that contributed to that wonderful gift of music making at an age when it was easy to learn but hard to appreciate. I never dreamed how much pleasure and comfort music making would bring me throughout my life.