As a Kid

As a child I perceived music to be something adults did. All the people I knew who played music were advanced professionals, my parents' friends. It never occurred to me until high school to try it seriously myself, although I loved poking at the piano.

Being the oldest child by several years had advantages, in that both my parents always seemed to have time for me, even though Dad's work schedule was weird. My mother, who had been a teacher, taught me to read when I was four, another legacy for which I will always be grateful.

Neither of my parents ever urged me to take music lessons or pursue it with long-term benefits in view, but whenever I expressed an interest in it, Dad would teach me things. Rather than starting me out with playing, he introduced me to the arcane world of musical notation, so that I understood a little about how music was written and how to follow along when it was played, which amounted to basic score reading, before I ever played an instrument. I would play at practicing this art, scribbling nonsense music on manuscript paper. At least it looked like music to me.

Sometimes I flopped out on the living room floor for an hour or more listening to Dad practice, and being deeply impressed. One day I told him directly, as he was putting his fiddle away, that I was proud to have a father who played music as well as he did. It was evident that he was touched to hear his son make that unsolicited heartfelt open expression. Just as every father wants children he can be proud of, every father longs for children who are proud of him.

Some people don't even know what a viola is. That's why Dad often referred to his viola as a fiddle, and to himself as a fiddle player, to avoid having to explain over and over. It seems I picked up the habit from him.

By that age I was conscious that Dad had a special status in the community because of his unusual job---that he wasn't exactly famous, and certainly wasn't rich, but was known and highly respected. In fifth grade, kids in my class expressed amazement that my father's name appeared now and then in the weekly Wilmette Life community newspaper.

In Chicago at first we had no piano. Our jolly next door neighbor, Mrs. Taylor, taught piano. One day before I'd even started school I knocked on her door and announced that I wanted to begin piano lessons. I had not taken this up plan with my parents. Mrs. Taylor was surprised, and said she didn't realize we had acquired a piano. Ummm---We hadn't. Was this necessary? Couldn't I just come over and play hers? No, that wasn't possible. I needed one at home to practice on. I left downhearted.

Around that time my father briefly acquired a pump organ. It worked well enough as far as I could tell. I sat at it, churning my feet at the bellows, and was entertained by the sounds I could get out of it. For some reason Dad put the thing in the basement. One day I went down to play with it, but it was gone. When I asked my father where it was, he said he gave it away. I cried I was so heartbroken. He had no idea I was interested in the thing.

One day not long afterward, when I was about six, our new Chickering spinet piano arrived. Dad was not a skilled pianist, so didn't need a performer's instrument. As a conductor, he needed a piano with which to study scores, and could hack through things well enough to accomplish this work. Dad was undoubtedly the first to play the Chickering, but I'm sure I was the second. Before long I'd learned to pick out ``My Country 'Tis of Thee'' with one finger. Then I learned ``Peter, Peter, Pumpkin Eater,'' and ``Chopsticks,'' which both took two fingers. That's as far as I got for a while.

After a while Dad got me started on teaching myself the piano using a popular method book he picked up for me. Later he taught me about conducting, never with the idea that someday I would be leading instrumental groups, but just to show me how it was done. My musical activity then was just another form of playing, like throwing a ball.