When I was a young boy, my parents bought a lovely spinet piano. Although neither of them was a pianist, it was clear that I was destined to play the piano. We were a musical family. My mother was a flutist in high school and my dad was an accomplished saxophone player who, in his youth, played with a jazz and swing band group that toured the Northwest.
Once I reached the ripe old age of 8, my parents enrolled me in piano classes with our neighborhood piano teacher. Mrs. Griffith was not just your regular piano teacher, but rather the mother of an extraordinary pianist, Patricia, who performed with symphony orchestras across the country. My mother was thrilled that I would be one of Mrs. Griffith’s pupils, as she was in great demand.
Mrs. Griffith was kind but also somewhat of a martinet. “Practice makes perfect” was her motto and she demanded a style of playing that relied on repetition of finger movements with no improvisation allowed. When I was at home on the spinet, my dad encouraged me to play freely, buying some Gershwin and swing music that I really enjoyed in defiance of Mrs. Griffith’s strict protocol.
Over the next few years, my lessons went well but for the summer months. Mrs. Griffith perspired freely and was either not cognizant of deodorant, or whatever use she made of it was ineffective. Summers in Southern Idaho were extremely hot with no air conditioning, and she had this most annoying habit of hovering over me while I was practicing. After some time, I learned to breathe totally through my mouth in order to endure the smell.
She had also developed a double chin and was working on a triple. In an effort to combat this, she purchased a device that looked like a small electric shaver, which she also used as she continually hovered over me.
When I complained repeatedly to my mother about these distractions, she dismissed my concerns as petty. Little did she know.
Despite these obstacles, I progressed as a young pianist and always performed well at annual spring recitals. When I was 11 or 12, Mrs. Griffith asked me and my parents if she could team me up with one of her other students to practice and perform a duet. She chose an advanced version of the classic “Tea for Two,” which she was confident we could master.
My duet partner Carl and I diligently practiced and practiced until our teacher was confident we had it down. We did a flawless job at the spring recital, resulting in accolades from both our parents and the audience. Mrs. Griffith was so impressed that she suggested we enter the state music festival. We competed at the local and regional levels, winning at both, and were awarded a trip to Boise, the state capital, to play in the finals.
Neither of us had ever performed in a large auditorium before and it was intimidating to look out over the crowd. Nevertheless, when our time came, we marched out in front of the audience, sat down at a beautiful grand piano and on cue began “Tea for Two.”
Two minutes in, I suddenly realized to my shock and horror that I was the only one playing. I looked over at my partner, Carl, and saw his eyes bugged out and his hands frozen above the keyboard.
I nudged him and whispered, “Start over,” which we did. We played for another two minutes before Carl once again froze at the keyboard. This time I realized there was no answer to this disaster. A kindly matron came over and escorted us offstage, after our obligatory bows and limited applause.
Our families were as supportive as one would expect. The debacle was not a subject of discussion for some time. Carl, being as much of an introverted adolescent as me, only made one half-hearted apology — “I just forgot everything” — which I grudgingly accepted.
I didn’t ask, but told my parents that I was done with lessons with Mrs. Griffith. They reluctantly complied with my request.
I continued to play the piano at home, much to my parents’ delight, but also began playing my dad’s beautiful E-flat alto sax in junior high and high school band and orchestra.
Occasionally when I am at home playing on our old baby grand and struggle with some difficult piece, I think back to my infamous last recital.
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