The Piano

As I said many times before, my family was very traditional. There were certain things that we children had to do and one of them was learning how to play the piano. My mother’s family, which had more influence on our growing years, was never the musical kind. Very few could carry a tune. Almost none could play an instrument. And most were tone deaf. The turntable in the living room was used only during weekends when my father, who at least had an appreciation for music and who could sing well enough, was home from the city where he worked. But I’m digressing.

Anyway, our piano teacher was the wife of a great-uncle (who was long dead before we kids were born) from my mother’s side of the family. Everything was sort of informal; there were no such things as Grades 1 or 2 or any higher level for that matter. Classes were held in Lola Pepang’s living room where her antique piano proudly stood. There were kids around my and Pie’s age from our neighborhood who went with us to piano school. There were older girls and very young ones and I think my sister Odie, who was about 5 at the time, was the youngest of them.

My heart wasn’t into it but I had to admit the solfeggios were fun. Plus, the fact that we went to class with groups of friends made leccions always enjoyable. I went from John Thompson to “The Harebell” to Edna’s colored booklets to American classics.
But before long, our friends dropped out one by one, followed by Ate Margie, then Pie, then Odie. By 1981, I was the only one left in my batch. But I didn’t mind going solo because by then, I already had hopes of becoming a virtuoso. Despite my lack of musicality, Lola Pepang seemed to believe in me too. I had mechanical hands and they could hit keys with an agility I never knew they had. My mentor must have noticed it too so she made me learn nifty finger exercises from a book called Duvernoy.
I was a high school freshman and into my next concerto by the time I stopped going to Lola Pepang’s. I knew I’d never be good anyway. Besides I had grown into a teenager who couldn’t squeeze piano lessons into her increasingly hectic “social” life. But at least I found time to do some self-study. I had my cousin Ate Chona teach me how to read notes. I tried to play pop, which my teacher never approved of and some other pieces like “Fur Elise” and a few more till my interest waned.
I haven’t touched any piano since I was in my mid-20s. Then one day, I fell in love with an antique Schmoller & Mueller in a shop selling pre-loved furniture from the US. It had a very handsome case that was quite imposing. I sat on the bench and run my rusty hands on its keys and before I knew it, I was playing “The Harebell”, my very first piece which I learned many years ago and still knew by heart. And oh, it made this beautiful grand music that could only come from old pianos of its kind.

Pray my husband gets it for me!