Kapell: Rachmaninov Piano Concerto No. 2 i. (1950)

I remember Miss Travelstead's piano lessons. 7 a.m., and I'd be yawning, not awake from the 3-block walk (sometimes in the dark through frost-bent grasses, crystals of ice snapping beneath my boots), how I'd fumble in the music bag she'd stitched me for my Schaum, my sheet-music waltzes. She'd serve me coffee or hot chocolate in glass cups with silver holders; I'd clench the cup till my fingers were warmed from the bite of the walk to her house. She'd give me sugar cubes to hold between my teeth. I loved the bakery smell of her house and the rice paper look of her skin.

At home I had a paper piano, only a cardboard flat of keys, so I never knew how anything was supposed to sound, just how the fingers worked. It was always a revelation to hear what I'd silently practiced. It sounded brilliant, even if it was the simplest "Ode to Joy." (Bells are ringing, hearts are singing...) When I sight-read something correctly or did all my scale work, as a reward Miss Travelstead would bring out the 45 RPMs of Kapell. We'd listen to him till it was time for me to leave for school. His playing was so clear--brilliant as icicles with sun piercing through them. (Did I mention it's 4 degrees here)?

I loved the piano until I actually got one, when we moved away from central Kentucky and into the western Kentucky ranch that would be my parents' first homestead. My dad paid $10 for an old upright that was kept in the garage, ensconced between the lawnmower and the rakes. The piano wasn't good enough for the house, but it was good enough for me. The wood was antiqued green (the color of mold on bread), and the Green Giant had once been a player piano. There was a great gape where the doors hiding the mechanism had been removed. The Giant was never in tune and sounded horrid. Keys--white and black--stuck; G sharp flew off if I struck it wrong; there was no pedal action, although I stamped like a flamenco dancer to try out una corda, sostenuto, and sustain. I sight-read and fingered on my old paper keyboard till my mother threw it out, because I "wasn't practicing." My heart was broken, but the lessons persisted. I loved the language (maestoso, pizzicato), the composers' names (Strauss, Debussey, Saint-Saens), the way my music teacher smelled (Arpege). She was a kind woman and a wonderful teacher of theory and music history, and I'm sorry I disappointed her. I just couldn't stand to practice on the Green Giant.



I am sort of ashamed that I hold a grudge about having to play in the garage--no heat in Kentucky winters, no air in humid Kentucky summers. I wasn't allowed to have the garage door up because I was "so bad." I thought for decades that the Giant and my parents took music away from me. But it didn't--not totally. I kept from these lessons a great ear. Because hearing music at age 7 was such a revelation, such a rare privilege, I learned to listen with concentration. I have extremely fast, strong, and supple fingers. For someone who's only 5 feet 4 inches, I still have an octave-plus reach. My hands came back very quickly after my stroke. I credit their strength to years of piano.

If I could afford a teacher, I'd retake those lessons. I'd listen and listen and see what would come back.