There's always been music. I never knew anything else. I'm not talking about what you hear on the radio, I'm talking about music that you make.
My relatives were concert and studio musicians. My own home had a steady stream of my mom's piano students. And when I was young, I spent many nights falling asleep to the sound of the neighbor boy, Mark, playing the trumpet in his upstairs bedroom. Then his brother, Paul, got a set of drums.
That was my normal.
It was a surprise to me as I grew up to realize how many people didn't have music. It made me sad.
I never fooled myself into thinking that I'd make a career in music.To me, it was a sense of belonging. As I drifted to percussion as my preferred instruments, I found that I enjoyed my place in the back of the band, the variety of instruments we had, especially the timpani, and how our parts felt like the spine of the music.
As a music minor in college, I savored the solitude of the practice rooms in Ives Hall where I could play the piano for hours.
I bought a piano when my children were young and taught them the basics. I never pushed. I let them decide where they wanted to go with music.
When our family settled into a neighborhood that had an excellent school music program, my kids naturally joined in. It was a fantastic way for the kids of all abilities to be part of a group. During the next nine years, we gladly hosted fundraisers, practice sessions, spontaneous get-togethers. Even during ordinary homework sessions, kids would end up at the piano or the drums.
They were happy.
The collection of instruments at my house grew and fluctuated: a saxophone, a clarinet, an oboe, an erhu. I was thrilled when my younger daughter came home from Australia with a didgeridoo, a beautifully painted aboriginal work of art.
They are all gone now. My husband and I are empty-nesters. But my children are close by and can come to visit.
I pull my car into the garage. I open the door. I hear the sound of the piano inside my home.
I feel ... joy.
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