Today I am remembering warm, orange tinted afternoons with mother. We're sitting in the car and she's driving me to piano lessons to the land she always referred to as Tempe. As a child I couldn't comprehend the idea that the Phoenix metropolitan area was basically one large mass of city. To me, going to music lessons meant approximately 15 minutes in the car: drive down country club, turn right once the street signs change from plain green to the boxy brown and green signs, and then go straight for a long time. Pass the fire station. Then turn once you see a high school who's colors seem to be royal blue and a Walgreens on the opposite corner. There were other ways of getting to the old Rio Salado builing, but that's the route that's jogging my mind today.
I remember mother always had her favorite CDs blasting through the speakers: Celine Dion (always a classic), Faith Hill, Barbara Streisand, Sarah Chang, Itzak Perlman and more. You see, these were the people who raised me, classicaly speaking. For my mother was their greates fan, and saw it vital to train me via the method of the greats.
Oftentimes my baby sisters (three) woud be stacked in carseats on the middle bench. I would sometimes have to sit in the middle of two of the three car seats, making sure to entertain the little ones. I'd even hold their green and blue transparent bottles. All the while, mother is strategically moving through traffic, asking me about my music. As I explain my pieces she is always sure to emphasize how good I can become if I will just practice. "But you MUST practice"she would always say. "If you want to be like these amazing musicians, you have to practice!"And boy, did I want to be great.
I remember when I was promoted from baby bottle holder to check writer. Learnig how to write a check in my mother's check book really made me feel special. Mother would often have me wite the check because with 6 other kids at home it was hard to find 45 seconds to write the check for my weekly lessons. Fifteen dollars. That was the usual amount. Although sometimes mother wanted to pay in advance. In that instance, I'd write the check for 45 dollars. I remember wanting to have perfect handwriting whenever I wrote the check. I was always frustrated when I couldn't make the check look beautiful. "Never forget to record the check"was another reminder I remember fervently.
I remember feeling ashamed and frustrated much of my childhood because I only praticed the bare minimum. My teachers would rave about my potential and then reveal their hot frustration at my unwillingness to practice and study theory. I knew I wanted to be great, but I wanted the rewards without the work. In fact, I remember having two motivations to practice: first, to beat my friends who were also taking music lessons; and two, because I actually, deep down, did love music. I do remember, however, the weeks when I did put in the necessary effort. Those weeks resulted in pleasant exchanges with my teachers and a happy, bouncy heart in me. Which is interesting, considering the fact that my favorite songs were the minor, more serious tunes.
I never knew exactly how mother spent her time with my sisters as I endured my 30-minute lessons with Dr. Christina (who is actually a fanstastic music teacher). I'd always ask her and her reply was always the same:I was running errands. What were errands anyway? Whenever mother used that word a mental image of thick gold earings would come to mind.
Today, I don't know how my mother did what she did for so long. Music lessons. In Tempe. Twice a week. That means 2 hours each time, which results in four hours of music lesson endeavors every week for 6 years. Recitals and competitions not included. Keep in mind, she was carting around 3 toddlers the whole time.
She is a super woman that mom of mine. But it took moving away to college for me to figure out all that she really did do (and is still doing) for her kids.
I remember mother always had her favorite CDs blasting through the speakers: Celine Dion (always a classic), Faith Hill, Barbara Streisand, Sarah Chang, Itzak Perlman and more. You see, these were the people who raised me, classicaly speaking. For my mother was their greates fan, and saw it vital to train me via the method of the greats.
Oftentimes my baby sisters (three) woud be stacked in carseats on the middle bench. I would sometimes have to sit in the middle of two of the three car seats, making sure to entertain the little ones. I'd even hold their green and blue transparent bottles. All the while, mother is strategically moving through traffic, asking me about my music. As I explain my pieces she is always sure to emphasize how good I can become if I will just practice. "But you MUST practice"she would always say. "If you want to be like these amazing musicians, you have to practice!"And boy, did I want to be great.
I remember when I was promoted from baby bottle holder to check writer. Learnig how to write a check in my mother's check book really made me feel special. Mother would often have me wite the check because with 6 other kids at home it was hard to find 45 seconds to write the check for my weekly lessons. Fifteen dollars. That was the usual amount. Although sometimes mother wanted to pay in advance. In that instance, I'd write the check for 45 dollars. I remember wanting to have perfect handwriting whenever I wrote the check. I was always frustrated when I couldn't make the check look beautiful. "Never forget to record the check"was another reminder I remember fervently.
I remember feeling ashamed and frustrated much of my childhood because I only praticed the bare minimum. My teachers would rave about my potential and then reveal their hot frustration at my unwillingness to practice and study theory. I knew I wanted to be great, but I wanted the rewards without the work. In fact, I remember having two motivations to practice: first, to beat my friends who were also taking music lessons; and two, because I actually, deep down, did love music. I do remember, however, the weeks when I did put in the necessary effort. Those weeks resulted in pleasant exchanges with my teachers and a happy, bouncy heart in me. Which is interesting, considering the fact that my favorite songs were the minor, more serious tunes.
I never knew exactly how mother spent her time with my sisters as I endured my 30-minute lessons with Dr. Christina (who is actually a fanstastic music teacher). I'd always ask her and her reply was always the same:I was running errands. What were errands anyway? Whenever mother used that word a mental image of thick gold earings would come to mind.
Today, I don't know how my mother did what she did for so long. Music lessons. In Tempe. Twice a week. That means 2 hours each time, which results in four hours of music lesson endeavors every week for 6 years. Recitals and competitions not included. Keep in mind, she was carting around 3 toddlers the whole time.
She is a super woman that mom of mine. But it took moving away to college for me to figure out all that she really did do (and is still doing) for her kids.
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