We were in our late 20s with a child when my husband, Ralph, finally graduated from college.
"OK, now I deserve a piano," I blurted out when he sat down for lunch just before the graduation ceremony. A look of surprise crossed his face.
"We could never afford a piano. After so many years of hard work, we got you through school. Now I deserve a piano," I repeated.
Several months later, Ralph, with help, moved the upright piano we bought for $ 100 into our cottage's tiny arched dining room. It smelled a little musty, but had great tone.
Ralph started graduate school, leaving no money for private piano lessons. The first thing that came to my mind was Santa Monica City College—maybe it offered piano lessons. Skimming the catalog, I danced around the room when I found a class at the same time the boys were at preschool.
Practicing, however, was not so easy. Four-year old redheaded Denny crawled out of bed in the evening on a regular basis. That was my time to practice. He'd pad out of the bedroom in his sleeper and climb up on the bench with me. Soon he began plinking (发出叮铃声) on the high keys. I tried to ignore him. He listened to the echoes of the keys and plinked some more. Doing all I could do to keep focused on my own practicing, I continued to ignore him.
This practice pattern became an evening routine. After a while, I didn't even hear him anymore. Ralph studied. Denny plinked on the high keys, and I focused on my piece for the end-of-the-term recital (独奏会).
That evening came. However, Ralph said he was busy preparing for the midterms and couldn't watch Denny.
Pacing back and forth, I shook my head trying to figure out what to do. Time was running out. I bundled up Denny—with his sleeper on—and drove off to the recital with him.
"We'll sit in the front row, Denny," I whispered. "You have to be very quiet and listen when I am playing." He nodded, said "Uh-huh," and we sat down.
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Denny held my hand, but then my turn came.
……
A small body climbed onto the piano bench next to me.