Dissonance and Harmony

A two-part memory lingers. Erroneous notes and charming frocks co-mingle in futile pursuit of sublime consonance. I believe I always knew the truth. I just didn't feel or hear the sounds, the possibilities of melodic bliss. I responded with rote reactions and perhaps vainly imagined that a prodigy would emerge.

My parents, with no exposure of their own, wanted their children to triumph in this tuneful world. Lessons seemed the right pathway. My brother and I began the journey early at Mrs. Kuehnle's School of Music. Piano would be our instrument. Not a profession, merely a personal gift. I was about nine, he just twenty months younger. Each lesson cost less than a dollar. About right for small town America, situated deep in the South in the mid-fifties.

At our farmhouse, a used upright piano appeared. It reposed, majestically, just behind the front door in our commodious hallway. In deep black hues, the instrument promised wonderment, but its students never conquered the keys. Yes, we did practice routinely, but without our selves actually being involved in the process. Lessons continued once a week for about eight years. Recitals punctuated each spring. We dutifully learned the pieces assigned and performed them. Our parents sat proudly in the audience. I'm not sure they realized how poorly we played.

I do know that we looked good. My sweet brother always wore proper Sunday trousers, a nice white shirt, a jacket and tie. His beautiful face charmed everyone and his endearing personality made him a favorite of all who met him. The audience most likely concentrated on his magic and ignored his less than polished playing. As an adult, he was enthralled by opera. Perhaps a musical legacy.




My outfits were carefully selected. A favorite hometown department store, Cole's, offered many choices. Some years, the attire could have easily been used for flower girl status or a fancy party.



For this particular recital, I had the misfortunate to perform with an extraordinarily musically gifted friend. Marian needed few lessons. She was infused with music and not only played the piano better than our teacher (ironically named Mrs. Horne) but also sang with absolute purity. Years later when we were in high school, she won the lead in every school play and was voted 'Most Talented' our senior year. Marian definitely deserved all the accolades.

Thankfully, there are only black and white photos capturing the annual performances. No one seemed to own a movie camera and even if they had, it would have produced a silent film. Maybe that would have been better anyway. Now, far into the future, modern day parents arrive at such events to chronicle every moment with a camera phone, digital camera or videocamera. Some may resort to tweeting family and friends to exude about their child's profound musical prowess. Photos are downloaded, edited and posted for all to admire. YouTube is the recipient of myriad moments, proudly displayed by euphoric parents. If I were a child today, my recitals might be relegated to 'America's Funniest Home Videos.'




The color was pale yellow, almost lemonade. Full length, it hid a scrawny body. My hair was tucked into a dainty bun and sprayed with half a can of Aqua Net. It didn't enhance the concert even slightly.

I think I may have chosen a part-time job at fourteen as a way to relinquish my lessons. Clearly I was not improving. I never developed a desire to sit at the piano and simply play, losing myself to the beauty being created. My primary pleasure lay within the pages of books and magazines. It was there that I could soar, vanishing into the lives of characters, relishing the art of word usage, expanding my historical repetoire. Reading was, and remains, my singular talent. I could not transfer that natural endowment to ivory keys.





This is probably my final recital. I perceive a look of determination and destiny. The lilies may herald the death of lessons. My blouse was a sateen cotton in a pallid blue. Its coordinating skirt included an overskirt of white lace. My shoes are the earliest of heels, very low and easily worn. I know I'm finished at Mrs. Kuehnle's.

For many years, I'd occasionaly sit at the piano when I visited my parents. I'd play, rather pitifully, the only song I remembered. I could hear the piano sigh. It sat silently for so long until one day Daddy decided it should be sold. I only hope the next owners demonstrated much more finesse.

My departure from the ill-fitted musical world was not complete. No, I was destined to marry someone for whom music is a mantra. His enthusiasm for the incomprable beauty of lyrics, the awesome ability of musicians, the supreme satisfaction of daily playing, and the recognition of how music intertwines with his life has profoundly impressed me for more than three decades. He's an exhaustive source of music trivia. Listen to a few notes and he'll proclaim the artist, year recorded, and maybe replicate the sound on his keyboard. I rarely answer these queries correctly. I'm able to sense how he nearly mourns for his music as we travel. Stopping by a mall, he gently fingers a few fabulous pianos on display. Is he wistful and remembering his own niche with piles of sheet music from which to choose? With a father who played professionally, worked at resorts in the Catskills, and recorded several records, he has impressive musical heritage. It is evident every day.





Having a son-in-law who's been a DJ, has his own recording studio at home, writes music and sings marvelously, provides my husband with a close confederate. Watching them perform together is endearing entertainment.

Our daughter tried the flute in fifth grade. Other instruments did not appeal and at the end of the school year, the flute, too, was abandoned. Its replacement was a guitar which went to college and eventually was packed for relocating to the northwest. Though the guitar tantalized with potential, life was just too momentous during those late teen years and her early twenties. Then she discovered Ladies' Rock Camp. A chance to perform without judgement. Just girls making music. Their music, created by the 'campers' themselves. What's not to love?




As she relates, something sensational happened. The guitar lost its temporary glory and a voice was found. She can, and does, sing. Loves the experience and has become a karoke aficioanado. Get her to a bar or simply hand her a microphone and she's instantly 'on.' Inhibitions are cast aside and the voice emerges. She has stage presence and a beautific smile. More than enough. And now she's a music journalist, chronicling performances for a blog.






I believe I've found harmony in my life. Music centers those whom I love the best. I have a mellifluous role as the audience. Mrs. Horne might be proud.