Move Over, Billy Joel

                   Gordon Studer

When I woke up this morning I sensed something good waiting but couldn't recall what. It's not Christmas, and anyway I'm a Jew so even if it were Christmas it wouldn't impact me. It's not my birthday, and even if it were nothing would happen, unless my friend Debra were visiting. So what could it be? Schlepping downstairs, my usual mode of transportation until that first cup of coffee, I stumbled past my husband's piano tucked on a side wall in the dining room and then I remembered: I took a lesson yesterday and now I can play the damn thing!

As a kid I took weekly piano lessons for several years. All I remember is that when I struck the wrong key the teacher, a harsh woman with a bun perched on the very top of her head like a bird's nest, would slap my knuckles with a wooden ruler. Surprise: I stopped taking lessons and blocked the experience from my mind. Until yesterday morning I could not even plink out a bad version of "Chopsticks" under duress. But all that changed in 30 minutes when I went to see a piano teacher I found in a local newspaper ad.

I was skeptical that much could happen in such a short amount of time, especially since the requisite two golden retrievers every Mainer owns were on-site, demanding the usual "Oohing" and "Aahing" and basically eating up my minutes until they were assured I was not a threat. Still, we finally got started and kept at it and suddenly the next student arrived and I was stunned at how the time had flown by.

The teacher sent me home with a book and practice lessons and lo and behold, last night I was playing the piano. My repertoire is limited, of course (Frere Jacques, Good King Wenceslas, Jingle Bells), but until yesterday it was just another piece of furniture to dust (and listen to Mitch play). Now it's competition for my computer.