Piano Lessons From the Other Side of 60

Lisa Diamond

I arrive 30 minutes early, pulling around the side of the building, which turns out to be an overgrown alley too narrow for a car from this century. I attempt to snuggle my Outback next to the trash and recycling cans, tall black and purple soldiers in the dark, but end up having to back up and complete a three-point turn I haven’t maneuvered since driver’s ed. In front of the building, I ease to the curb behind a burgundy Jeep sans driver. Killing the engine, I sit and watch for my son Steven to pull up so we can go in together. Waiting, waiting. I hate being late to anything but I’m not going to be that mother that calls her 37-year-old son to badger him about it. Deep breaths to keep the volcano of anxiety from erupting. Movement, I need to move. The nervousness of trying to learn something new, finding the right room, feels like the first day of elementary school all over again. Will I stand out, the new kid, lost, embarrassed to look like I don’t know what I’m doing or where I’m going?

In the meantime, I scan this Rosedale neighborhood I’ve never been to and see a parking lot across the street with a tiny “Parking for Swallow Hill Music Only” sign, and I repark. It’s now 6:55 p.m. and I’m still waiting before our 7:00 p.m. semi-private lesson. Finally, Steven pulls around the corner and we meet on the sidewalk to enter together so it doesn’t feel as foreign as going in alone.

Steven had taken a piano class here before Covid canceled everything and had wanted to get back to it. A class setting of beginners proved too distracting and we were both looking forward to having a teacher to ourselves as much as getting out of the confines of our respective homes and spending some time together. Maybe he’d inherited the music gene from my side of the family; his hands spread an entire octave unlike anyone in the family, including me.

Welcoming ladies at the front desk ensure our masks are at hand and offer sanitizer squirts as soon as we dispense with a “clean” pen into the “dirty” bin. We are directed to our room upstairs and pass some folks jamming in the lobby where scattered well-loved couches form a family room scene. A spot on the corner of the floor is carved out for a Ficus tree; smooth rocks surround its trunk. I love the vibe of this old place already.

Up a flight of creaky stairs, we find room 202. I realize it is a repurposed Sunday school room, now dedicated to a spiritual practice of another kind. The door is closed but through the tiny sliver of a window, I see our teacher sitting at an old upright. Donning his mask, he ushers us in. Guiding us each to our own piano, we pull out a bench and sit. Ever the overachieving student, I extract my legal pad, pen poised at the ready as he inquires to why we’re here and want to learn piano. I’m not ready to share my childhood dreams just yet so I say something inane like “Oh, I’ve always wanted to learn.” Hoping he doesn’t see past my inadequate facade of expectations.

“Any previous experience?” None. We share similar ignorance to his elementary school students, except we’re taller and have life experience that will eventually pepper him with too many whys.

Learning the keys with middle C as our anchor, we are taught cute visualizations to remember the positions of the keys that correspond to locations in a storybook house: first ivory is the Front Yard, followed by the Garage, the Attic and lastly, the Backyard. Another 62-year-old might find this foundational way to remember too juvenile, but for me, it works. Next, he talks about notes on a staff. Treble clef will be played with our right hands and bass clef with the left. Ok, so far, so good. Next, reading notes on the lines versus those between the lines with more cute prompts to aid memorization.

He uses mnemonics to help us learn the scales like Good Burritos Don’t Fall Apart or All Cows Eat Grass and although catchy, they only serve to make me hungry. During college, I never understood why one would spend time learning mnemonics because you would have to memorize them and what they stood for. I’d rather use my brain power to just remember what I needed to memorize in the first place. Same with the notes dispersed across the lined page.

After going through the scales with both right and left hands, we play a few bars of “Ode to Joy,” and I’m hooked. Being able to play parts of an actual song, one of my favorites to boot, brings immense joy. Time becomes a fugue. I can’t tell you the day of the week at that moment or even a single problem weighing on my mind. Everything falls away and I am playing the piano. Maybe I am my father’s daughter after all? A lifetime of family lore reminds me of how he could play by ear, never taking a lesson, playing for nothing but delight. It was always hoped that I would fill the Ronald-McDonald-sized shoes after he died. Or, I guess, I had hoped I would fill after he died. Unspoken hope. I’d tried taking lessons twice several decades before with no genetic talent identified by either myself or teachers and I quickly gave it up. Why try again? And why now? Did I really think that some latent musical genius had finally mutated my symphonic gene and I would be able to play? I was about to find out. For 35 years I have wanted to take piano lessons and here I am playing a tiny snippet of Beethoven’s 9th. A kinship I had never known with my father feels palpable. I might not prove to be his musical prodigy in execution, but I was in the joy of it.

Two hours pass in moments. I walk through the dark to my car on a puff of air. After ordering a keyboard on Amazon to practice, I start Googling “will a baby grand fit in my small house?” Many “yes” hits complete with floor plans and measurements. Ten o’clock at night and I’m moving dining room furniture, tape measure in hand to figure this out. Next, I find a piano store and peruse the used baby grands, lusting after them like pics on a dating app. Could I give up traveling for the better part of a year to afford one? Why yes, I could, especially with Covid continuing to nip at our heels.

One piano lesson, just two bars of a classic symphony, and I’m wiping out my bucket list to make room for a baby grand. Even thinking about buying a bigger house if I must. I can visualize sitting on a mahogany piano bench tufted with tapestry, fingers perched above the keys, playing Gershwin’s “Rhapsody in Blue.” My father’s favorite piece.