Interlude On the Piano

When I was 7 years old, my sister, aged 8, started taking piano lessons from Mrs. Bastian in the neighborhood across the street. I remember very little about that period other than my intense jealousy that she had been offered the option of doing this special thing, when I, myself, had not. I stewed and whined about it for what had to have been months before my mother finally gave in and let me take lessons as well. The only caveat was that I had to promise to practice.

It was a devil's bargain, but I made it.

What I remember about those piano lessons has nothing to do with piano:

• the interminable half-hour waiting for my sister's lesson to be over.
• the cheesy Cape Cod sand dune painting on Mrs. Bastian's kitchen wall.
• the precarious climb to the m&m jar she kept on top of a bookcase.
• the little ice-skating scene she laid out at Christmas time.

Back home, I remember sitting on the piano bench in our large cold living room, not playing. I remember Mom's voice calling from the kitchen, "Why do I not hear anything??" I remember receiving significantly fewer of Mrs. Bastian's congratulatory stickers than my sister, who was practically born playing the Love Theme from Ice Castles.

The only song I learned in the entire year I took lessons was "The Snake Dance." This was, it turned out, a cleaned-up title for a not-so-clean tune. Namely, the one that starts, "There's a place in France/Where the ladies don't wear pants."

I didn't realize there was a problem with "The Snake Dance" until I started pounding it out during coffee hour after church one Sunday. I can't remember a time, before or since, when my mother moved as quickly as she did that morning.

It took only a week or two for the bruises--inflicted by the piano lid--to fade from my knuckles. My interest in the piano did not recover so quickly.

If I could not play "The Snake Dance," I would not play at all.