Momma’s Piano

Jun 09

Lisafamily , , , , , , , 3 Comments

For as long as I can remember, and it escapes me as to what year she acquired it, the piano was my mother’s prized possession. It endured move after move as the Navy dictated our place of residence—even up and down steep flights of stairs at different times.

As a small child, I could count on her playing hymns during the week, her then dexterous fingers landing flawlessly over the keys. The sound of music filled our home. Momma had a voice that most assuredly could have been good enough for opera. Maybe not diva quality, but for sure in the supporting roles had the proper training was afforded her with fortunate circumstances.

Momma’s beautiful voice sang solos in church services. It was a sense of great pride to see her standing solo amongst the choir giving praise to God with the voice he had blessed her.

The upright always had sheet music and the hymnal in its place on the piano stand—countless pages of sheet music in the bench seat. To hear her singing and playing gave our home a warm welcoming place for our family.

On a particular Saturday, prior to a Sunday service, she sat at the piano becoming familiar with a hymn, trying to perfect her delivery. I sat on the living room floor playing with my Lincoln logs. As I casually looked up across the room, I became aware of and thought, “How can she sing, play and move her feet on the pedals at the same time?”

I lost all interest in the cabin I was building and stretched out fully prone, supporting my head with elbow on the floor, hands on each side of my face. Here I watched her most intently for ten minutes, it must have been—I was entranced.

At some point Momma turned in her seat and saw me watching her. She smiled and patted the seat next to her signaling me to join her on the bench. I jumped to my feet and took my place next to her.

Momma asked, “Want to help me Clarky?”

“Sure!” Not knowing how I might do that.

Momma slowly closed the hymnal and pulled out some sheet music. It was a contemporary song of the early sixties, but I’m not quite sure. She opened to the first page of notes. “Now sing along,” she said. I edged closer to the keys and then she instructed me to turn the page when she nodded her head.

We started, and with anticipation, I waited for my cue. I sang the words, humming at those I couldn’t pronounce, but all the while really listening to her angelic voice. I acquainted myself well in the page turning, or at least I believed I did.

Upon completion of our mother-son duet, she put her arm around me, pulled me close and kissed my head. “Thank you, son.” I so remember shining brightly at that moment.  Somehow I had helped my dear momma at something with which she was good. It was then that I wanted to learn to play.

This was never to materialize, however, except for a feeble attempt on my part a couple years later. Momma started me on lessons, but soon enough I lost interest. The calls of boyhood, times outside, called louder than the piano keys.

Momma was not one to force this issue. If I really wanted it she would have pursued it tirelessly. As an adult I regret that choice.

The instilling of music in me was solid. Because of Momma, late in life I listen to operas on the radio performed at the met in New York City. On one particular performance, lost in the moment, the voice was so much like Momma’s that tears flowed from my eyes.

Seemingly projecting her into the performance from my cell, the voice soothed, at least for a short time. With Momma so far away and the opportunities of my life missed, my eyes filled with her ebbing.

The gift of music that she filled me with in my youth is a comfort that sustains me behind bars—life such that it is. In the still of the cell, in the dark of night, I remember lovingly, her gift—and her gift to me.