And What Happens Almost Two Decades Later? One Woman’s Journey Might Teach Us A Thing Or Two About Hanging In And Making Good Choices.
2005, I pitched an article to an editor at The New York Times about my sister-in-law Judy, who restarted piano lessons at age 66. I thought it an admirable undertaking and her story important.
Continued learning makes sense. The Right to Education Initiative (RTE), an international organisation that promotes “education as a human right,” notes that adults (re)enter education for a variety of reasons — among them, “to continue learning for personal development and leisure.”
That certainly described Judy’s motivation. The editor loved the idea — slated it for the Education section — but left the newspaper before the piece ran.
Why not do a follow-up now? I thought recently, as I searched through my old hard drive directories to find a piece that would have been published were it not for that editor’s change of plans.
My Sister-in-Law/Myself
I was curious myself.
Judy met my nine-years-older brother Irwin when he was 14 and she, 12. The six years and four months between us was huge when they married in 1956.
She was the uppity twenty-something who snitched when my houseguest and I left blankets on the back porch. Our intention was to come back after the movies and head for the beach to make out with our boyfriends — only to be caught in the act by my father, thanks to Judy. (Or at least that’s the story I’ve believed for the last 65 years!)
Cut to our dotage. She’ll be 85 in August, and I, 79 in December. We have grandchildren and good health in common. We’re both talkers, both strong women. Our daughters, now in their fifties, are similar.
My initial curiosity about Judy’s piano lessons was professional — I knew a good story when I heard one. I also admired Judy. I’d love to play the piano. I took lessons as a kid, too, but that’s the thing about learning: you need to practice and put in time. Judy was willing.
As I reread Judy’s story from back then, I immediately start wondering: Is she still taking lessons? Still practicing? Is her body still cooperating? We’re talking almost two decades.
So, I asked Judy to reread the piece, too, and to add any comments, corrections, or updates. What has changed, between now and then?
Spoiler alert: Miraculously and wonderfully, very little.
The original piece, as told to me by Judy, appears below, exactly as written, with a few extra paragraph breaks. Judy’s additions appear in bold italics like this.
Piano Lessons: Take Two
Restarting piano lessons two years ago at age sixty-six has been an unexpected gift. May 2022…seventeen years later, it keeps on giving!
Like many women of my generation, my life has been almost entirely about sharing. But the piano is just for me. I sit there alone, the late afternoon light bouncing off the Long Island Sound and streaming through the window. I play by myself and for myself.
I would love to say that I get my inspiration from the flowing water or the changing seasons outside my window, but when I’m practicing, I look only at the notes. I’m transported; the world, my worries, my thoughts disappear entirely. At that moment, nothing is more important to me. We downsized in between, though I still have the piano. Location is different — thoughts, the same.
I didn’t deliberately set out to re-learn the piano. I fell into it when my daughter, Debra, asked me to give her the small Brambach baby grand that had been a fixture in our Oyster Bay living room for nearly forty years and for another twenty-five years before that in my childhood home in Asbury Park, New Jersey. My mother had bought it second-hand for $25 during the Depression, because she wanted my sister and me to learn how to play.
Once a week, I’d ride my bike to Thelma Mount’s antique-packed house where she’d stand next to me as I played, towering over my eight-year-old self, constantly correcting my posture, and rapping an ominous wooden ruler on the piano to keep time. I hated every minute of it and barely practiced in between. I quit at fourteen.
I offered to buy Debra a new piano for her family, but she wanted our “little pearl,” as my piano tuner called it, because of its history. I didn’t think I’d miss it. But the following Thanksgiving, when Debra and Jack (my son) and their ever-expanding broods came to visit, I was acutely aware of a hole in the spot where my mother’s bargain piano once stood.
A few weeks later, I found myself at Frank and Camille’s, a well-stocked piano showroom in Huntington. Watching me plunk this keyboard and that, Camille urged me to try a highly polished, black Kawai because it required a softer touch. She warned me that the arthritis in my fingers wasn’t going to get any better. (I really needed to hear that!) To sweeten the deal, she threw in six free piano lessons.
From the very beginning, I was hooked. The teacher, Liz, was young and energetic. She started with the first book in the Alfred’s Adult All-in-One series and worked mostly on the basics — learning notes, sharps, flats, using rests, counting properly.
Thanks to Thelma Mount, I was like Pavlov’s dog: Just sitting at the piano my body remembered the poker-straight posture, the level wrists, the curled fingers. And, God bless her, Thelma did teach me to read music, so I didn’t have to start from scratch. The half-hour flew by.
What a difference from my childhood lessons. Among other benefits, I felt like I was refreshing a lot of grey matter. More importantly, no one was telling me I had to play; I wanted to learn — and I had the time to indulge myself.
In my forties, when I had taken a few lessons with my daughter’s teacher, I’d practice for ten minutes, and the phone would ring — my husband, the kids, a business question, some civic organisation I was involved in. Most of the time, I cancelled on the teacher because I hadn’t practiced.
Now fast forward to my sixties. I’d never cancel a lesson. I’m able to turn off the phone. And I have more patience and more tolerance for the frustration that comes with learning something new than I did when I was younger. Of course, my slightly arthritic fingers don’t work as well as they once did, and I use special mid-range glasses to read the music.
I have more patience and more tolerance for the frustration that comes with learning something new than I did when I was younger.
I also suspect I have to work harder than a kid at being relaxed at the piano. Still, I am more of a partner in my own learning than I could have been as a child, or maybe even in my forties when I cared more about pleasing people. In fact, the relationship with Liz ran its course when she began pressuring me to take part in a recital with her other students.
“No way,” I said. “I’m not getting up on stage for anyone.”
My current teacher, Steve, an amiable young man in his forties, comes to my house, stays for about an hour, and basically lets me do what I want. He might suggest a piece that he thinks I’ll like, but we make the decision together.
During my lessons, we sometimes just discuss music — various styles and composers. As a result, my knowledge of music has expanded, along with my appreciation of it. Now when I go to a concert, I actually hear differently, especially the piano
. 
My goals have changed, too. I’m learning how to finesse the notes so that everything doesn’t sound the same. Steve and I will look at a piece and talk about the various symbols and how to achieve the intended effects. He’s teaching me how to read sheet music like a book, how to “bring out” the melody and to understand when to slow down or speed up.
Many times, Steve and I can spend a whole lesson on a couple of measures. He has the patience of Job, especially when life gets in the way of my practicing. I’ll often warn him, “This will be your worst lesson all week.” He laughs and compares me to his younger students. “You haven’t heard their lessons.”
And when I flub a note, I tell him, “You should have heard me yesterday–not one note missed, perfect all the way through.” I guess some things don’t change, even with maturity.
The big difference between my younger self and me is that taking lessons and practicing no longer feels like a chore. Two years ago, this started out as something I wanted to try, and now it has turned into something I absolutely love doing.
Sure, it’s hard work and, at times, difficult and frustrating. But I can sit there for hours and play one measure over and over again, because I know I can get up at any time. Right now, I’ve got Beethoven’s Moonlight Sonata, Schumann’s Reverie, and Harold Arlen’s Stormy Weather on the piano. And I when I feel like I’m beginning to lose my concentration, I play around with Over the Rainbow, Stardust, and Send in the Clowns (does that date me?).
But it really doesn’t matter what I am playing. I never look at a clock, because the piano is where I want to be. And if it’s one of those days when I can get a piece to sound really good, my entire being relaxes, and a sigh of delight washes over me. It’s an incredible high — and it’s all mine.
“I guess some things never change. I’m still taking lessons with Steve — rarely do we cancel a lesson — and still playing for my own enjoyment.
“As I look back at 85…life has been good AND I can still play the piano…the fingers can still move… the memory is still there…
“I don’t usually practice for more than an hour these days — the sitting is harder. And sometimes before a lesson I’ll take Advil, but…hey!
“I’m loving all 19 years with Steve, my Kawai, and me! What a wonderful journey.
