My interest in piano began at my father’s side.
Sitting next to Dad on the bench, I watched his fingers. Listened to him hum in a monotone, lost in the effort of execution. Pedaling. Swaying. One with his tune.
When Dad was not playing popular music himself, Fats Waller, Chubby Checkers, Tommy Dorsey, and Frank Sinatra recordings filled in for him.
My parents were not into “long-hair” music – as my mother called classical – though my father was not above listening to the Gregorian chant he had studied when he attended Seminary for high school, and two years of college.
My music education, however, was decidedly traditional, despite my parents’ tastes.
Miss Belser, my first formal teacher, was a gray-haired dowager in full-length pearls, decorating flowing floral dresses. She instructed my five-year-old self in the skills of marking and recognizing rhythms. Marching around her Victorian parlor with a drum, my task was to keep time to the music while she played. My mother, my chauffeur who sat by while I learned, must not have thought much of these techniques. My stint in Miss Belser’s strange world of sweeping verandas, chintz, and lace curtains was brief.
I graduated to studying with our church organist, Renato Rolando.
Mr. Rolando had a silent piano on one wall for technical skills and exercises, and a performance piano where our lessons took place. We made our way through The Royal Conservatory of Music series, copiously marked up in pencil with suggestions and reminders, and eventually decorated with a gold star when a piece became my own.
After many years of study, I found myself auditioning to be accepted as a student of Stanley Hummel. Weekly evening lessons with him enriched my life. And though I chose not to pursue the path of becoming a concert pianist, his influence remains.
I am listening to his records now.
How wonderful to be surrounded by Chopin in the afternoon. (c)
