Monday, August 24, 2009

Music to My Ears

We hosted a piano recital at our house last night. Brennan, Brady, and two other little girls are taking lessons from the same teacher. Seeing as there is no formal studio (lessons are in-home), one of the moms suggested that it might be nice to have a recital; something for the kids to work toward as well as an opportunity to memorize a piece or two and perform it in front of an "audience".

A little background. My father-in-law relocated to Raleigh about a year ago. When he moved, he gave us his old piano. While I was thrilled about the gift, I wasn't sure how it was going to play. It smelled like a musty old church. It hadn't been tuned since Thriller was a #1 hit. There were some keys that didn't strike well, others didn't strike at all, and the beautiful old (real) ivory keys were chipped, broken, painted over and scratched. He had acquired the piano in the 70's as part of a deal buying a washer and a dryer. It's an old player piano from 1920, but unfortunately, those parts have been removed. He stripped the original finish off the piano and had stained it, so the exterior was alright, but it was in really, rough condition musically when we received it.

After several eye popping estimates, I found someone who could repair and tune it for a reasonable amount. After all, I wasn't trying to refurbish a sentimental family heirloom. It was thrown in with a washer and a dryer... Thankfully,iIt now has a very nice sound and is holding it's tune, so far.

Brennan has been taking lessons for about a year. She is diligent and self motivated in her practice, and has made great strides in learning how to play, read, and even write music. She became interested in piano after her friend (one of the other girls at the recital) had been taking lessons for a while, but didn't want to start lessons "until she was 7 years old." She genuinely enjoys it and is beginning to get a feel for the music, and "feel" the different kinds of emotion in the music when she plays. It's fun to watch her develop.

Brady declared that he wanted to start taking lessons shortly after Brennan began, but "not until he was 6." So he's been taking lessons about 7 months now. At one point in time I mentioned to the kids that piano was a great stepping stone to other instruments, especially the guitar. Brady seized on that little nugget on information (he really wants to learn how to play the guitar someday) and that's when he decided that he wanted to play. He's made great progress also and I'm extremely proud of his dedication. I think he envisioned himself becoming the new Chris Martin (of Coldplay) by the age of seven, and as a result, he gets frustrated when he can't get things right or compares himself to Brennan. We keep reminding him that he started at a younger age and hasn't played as long and that he needs to work at his own pace. When he's by himself at the piano, I think he is happy and proud of his progress. I hope he keeps at it!

It's the day of the recital. Brennan and Brady (and one of the other girls who is playing in the recital) have soccer practice (with Mark, who is coaching both teams) until 5:30. The piano teacher and families are set to arrive at 5:30 for dinner then the recital. The kids come in red faced and sweaty from soccer. I send them upstairs to change into something less sweaty and smelly, and hopefully nicer. The third family arrives, with their three (clean) girls all in lovely dresses, hair brushed and nicely done. Brennan comes down in an old skort and tank top, not exactly what I'd envisioned but better than stinky gym clothes. Brady's looking smart in a golf shirt and khaki shorts, the same clothes that had been, I'm certain, lying crumpled up on the floor since we got home from church that morning.

Dinner comes and goes. The folding table I'd set up outside for some of the kids collapses, much to my chagrin and to our dog's delight, as four half empty plates of lasagna and salad slid to the floor. The piano teacher, I find out, is allergic to gluten and lactose intolerant, so the lasagna I had made was not a great option for her. While the adults are eating, the boys start tormenting the older girls, and the younger kids are down swinging and playing in the sandbox. The adults quickly shovel in their last bites of lasagna (everyone but the teacher, who was limited to chips and salsa and salad) and we call the kids in.

It's time to get the show started. We gather everyone together and head to the piano. Everyone that is, except Mark, who is frantically hosing off all the kids who went in the general vicinity of the sandbox and Brennan, who has apparently decided to glamorize herself for the big show by spritzing herself with no less that 6 types of perfume and is now carrying the scent of a French whorehouse. The kids all quarrel over who has to go first, and ultimately decide that the two oldest girls will perform the piece they wrote together first to break the ice, then it will go youngest to oldest. Everyone did a great job. Really and truly, I can say that each of the kids did a wonderful job on each of their pieces. It was a proud parent moment for all of us.

After celebrating every one's success with cupcakes, the sugar kicks in and the boys become wild. The girls start slamming and locking doors (big no-nos in our house), and venturing into my closet to raid my clothes, which they've been warned not to do (again).

Sensing the heightened state of chaos that generally precedes imminent disaster, the family with the three little ladies start gathering their belongings when a toy vacuum cleaner comes sailing down the stairs, grazing the side of the head of their youngest daughter. Thankfully, she is a tough little cookie and is unfazed by the whurr of hard plastic flying by her. I sheepishly start to peer up the steps, holding my breath and praying that it wasn't one of my darlings that sent the projectile down the stairs. Mark beat me to it, and in about 0.3 seconds, identified the offender as Brady, who admitted to the accident, claiming that he was returning the vacuum to it's proper place, which is downstairs, and it slipped out of his hands. Rambunctious as he was, it seems as though this was the truth, as I debriefed him again at bedtime and he felt badly about the whole thing.

All in all it was a nice evening. I'm grateful to my father-in-law for giving us the piano, and the opportunity for the kids to learn how to play and appreciate music. It still smells like a musty old church. Actually, now it smells like a group of old ladies (or prostitutes, you pick) have gathered in there for church and their perfumes are fighting for dominance over the mustiness of the piano. Somehow though, it doesn't bother me as much when I hear the sweet sound of Skip To My Lou and C Scales floating through the air.