MY PIANO TEACHER

It’s funny a word, a sentence, a smell or an image will trigger a memory.  This memory hidden deep within our psyche dwelling quietly waiting to be triggered. The memories, good, bad, happy, sad the entire range of human emotion. We thought they would never surface.  The mind is a tricky entity. Bringing memory and all that comes with it to the for front. Is this memory true or do we make up a story that suits us. Therein lies the tale of the piano teacher.

I was six or seven when mom asked if I wanted to take piano lessons.

“Opp’s memory is already tweaking the story.”

The truth is I was told to take piano lessons. Apparently, that’s what all young girls were doing.

Mom found a piano teacher through one of her friends. She was told this woman was excellent and good with children. Miss Serafina in her mid-thirty’s, single, and a professional. She lived out of town. This meant that Dad would have to drive me as Mom never learned to drive.

It was a Wednesday, after school Dad drove me to Miss Serafina’s house. It was quite a distance, it seemed like forever, until we got to the turn off to her house. We drove along the winding dirt road past cows, a creek and pine trees. We were told that her house was behind a large weeping willow tree. We saw the tree; we were finally there. The house was surrounded by a dark wood fence. We opened the gate walked up to the front door. Before we could knock, she quickly opened the door and invited us into her house.

Miss Serafina was a tall woman around six feet, extremely thin as if you could blow on her and she would fall over. She had long straight back hair below her shoulders, red lips and radiant blue eyes. I noticed her hands. They were long and slender. She had very long fingernails and they were painted a bright red. She was wearing a long black dress that swayed from side to side as she walked. She was followed everywhere by a very large black cat.

She asked dad to sit on the porch while I had my lesson.

My lesson started. I was to sit with a straight back on the piano bench. If I started to slump, I would feel a cold hand in the middle of my back. Her sharp voice telling me sit up straight! It was scary.

She placed my hands on the keyboard.  She pushed each of my fingers on the correct note. C, D, E, F, G, A, B, C as the tip of her fingernails made marks on my skin. She showed me how to do the scale. Which fingers to use with which key. I guess this was how you learn to play the piano.

Diablo, the black cat, sitting on the piano staring at me. His huge green eyes would change colour to the same blue as Miss Serafina’s. I was told to sit at the piano while she went to get another piece of music. This gave me a chance to look around the room. I noticed candles, incense, very old books with strange titles, and a large kettle. My child brain was going into high gear. Who, what, when, where and why were the questions. Who is Miss Serafina. What does she really want from me. When will I know what she wants. Where will I find myself. Why me. She came back into the room, mumbling in a foreign language, not with piano music but a snack for me and Diablo. Yup the same snack for both of us. I did not like it, but Diablo devoured it.

Finally, it was time to go my piano lesson was finished. Dad came inside and paid her. Then he said something to her in his native language, Romanian. They carried on a brief conversation; I heard my name mentioned a few times. And that was the end of my first piano lesson.

When I got home all I wanted was to be left alone. There was something odd about Miss Serafina, something spooky. The long black hair, her height, Diablo, the long red fingernails that clicked on the keyboard, the books with strange titles, the candles, incense, the large kettle and the fact she spoke Romanian. I wondered if she was witch. Everything seemed to fit. Why would my parents send me to a witch to learn piano?

Gathering up my courage I asked Dad if she was a witch.  I asked my father what they spoke about. The usual answer nothing important. But this time he decided to tell me. Miss Serafina wasn’t a witch. She was a Romanian Gypsy and Dad had known her in the old country. Dad said I did not have to be afraid of her because really, she is a very kind woman. Miss Serafina was an accomplished pianist in her country. She is different than others that you know.  Her resilience in the face of adversity attest to her character.

I was relieved. I was not being taught by a witch or possibly eaten by one. Instead, it will be a wonderful and colourful experience. Who knows what wonderful things I will learn  on the piano and about Gypsy life.