Last night Mar had a piano recital. Since it was being held in the chapel at our church, we were asked to please not take pictures or video, which was probably for the best, since one of Mar's pieces was a duet with moi. I think Mar takes pleasure in making me practice, and then perform. It's my worst nightmare. I have serious performance anxiety. The recital was no exception.
I suddenly had to use the bathroom... really bad. My heart was racing.
I worried about letting Mar down.
It took me back to my days in jr. high, when my {crazy} choir teacher, Mrs. Schmidt, had me accompany a choral selection (or two) every concert for a good 2 1/2 years.
(Me and my Grandma G. playing a... duet. Circa 1981. Gotta love those high-waisted pants.)
To this day I still wonder what in the world Mrs. Schmidt was thinking. I remember that she was flustered with me during choir class one day, because my timing was horrendous. What did she expect? I think I had less than a year of lessons prior to entering 7th grade. I was a fake pianist. I never learned to read notes. As I was learning a new piece, I would tediously repeat, "Every Good Boy Does Fine," and "All Cars Eat Gas." Then I would take my handy pencil, and write the note above the line. I learned the theme song to Chariots of Fire that very same way. And it had 5 flats. It took me six months to learn, and another six to perfect. But I can still play it to this day, and every time I do, people seriously think I can play. It's kind of a joke at our house. That I can play piano.
In high school I took a health occupations class my senior year, and for one of our field trips we visited a nursing home. I remember stopping on our tour in the lunchroom, where an elderly gentleman was sitting at a table, rubbing his finger around in a circle, and singing, in the most beautiful baritone voice, song after song. Our nursing home tour-guide told us that he was in the later stages of Alzheimer's, and could no longer recognize his family. He couldn't even remember to eat his food, and had to be fed by someone else. He would eventually forget how to swallow, she said.
"How could he possibly remember those songs, then?" I asked.
"They simply must have been stored away in an area of his brain that has yet to be affected," she responded.
So, I've told my kids, don't be offended if someday, years from now, in the throws of Alzheimer's, I can't remember who they are, but I can play Chariots of Fire like a real pianist.
It was finally Mar's turn. I waited until she introduced herself and her musical selections, then I (shoeless, so as not to draw further attention to myself with clappy shoes) joined her at the piano. All of a sudden, I couldn't even remember what our duet sounded like. "One, two, ready, go..." Mar said. I began. Right away I could tell my timing was off (I've never been good at that). We got back together. I missed a note or two in the middle of the piece. Suddenly, at the final note, I remembered that we were going to give special attention to the dynamics. Oops. I had forgotten.
I returned to my seat to appreciate Mar's final piece, which was perfection.
Bill says it was great. He said he couldn't tell there was a mess-up at all. Even Mar consoled me by saying she didn't even notice. Yeah, right.
I think I will let Mauri know that next year, I would prefer NOT to perform. Just to enjoy, like all those other parents.
