Mrs. Carlson was my piano teacher throughout high school. Her house sat on a lovely tree-lined street in the old section of town. There were two pianos in the living room, an upright and a baby grand. When Mrs. Carlson played a Scarlatti duet with you, she could make you sound much better than you actually were, which came in handy at recitals.
Mrs. Carlson was a graduate of Oberlin Conservatory of Music and the School of Sacred Music at Union Theological Seminary. She wore frilly blouses and tweed skirts and very no-nonsense shoes. Her silvery hair was pulled back in a demure and ever-present chignon. She was the organist and choir director for several local churches, including her own parish, the First Congregational Church on the Federal Hill Green.
During my years as her pupil, Mrs. Carlson patiently tried to teach me the fundamentals of music theory and chord structure. I wish I could say that I practiced daily and diligently. I did not. I did work fairly hard at my recital pieces, if only to avoid humiliation in front of my fellow pupils and their parents.
I remember my junior year recital. A dozen or so of us students were perched in the rows of folding chairs that had been set up in front of the pianos in Mrs. Carlson’s living room, waiting our turn to play. There was Bob, a soldier in the Salvation Army, whose older sister had died unexpectedly during the spring semester. The word had spread quickly over the cafeteria tables in school that day. (“Poor Anne,” my friend, Pat had exclaimed, “she woke up dead this morning!”) There was Marjorie, whom I had known since the first grade. Her mother had shot herself with a pistol when we were six. Her father was seated next to my parents in the third row.
I was awkwardly sorry for everyone, but mostly I was nervous that I would stumble somewhere in the middle of Clair de Lune and make a hideous mistake that no one in the room could fail to notice. In the kitchen next door, I could hear Mrs. Carlson’s husband, George getting the refreshments ready. Somehow we all managed to survive and make it through to the punch and cookies.
After senior year, I headed off to art school. I kept up with my piano lessons every other week until December. I could not bear the thought of preparing for another June recital. There was no time. My mother broke the news to my teacher. I never saw Mrs. Carlson again.
Four decades have passed. I have opened up my music books once more. The pages are penciled with my piano teacher’s notations. She was forever refingering the notes and reconfiguring the chords. I believe I am ready to begin learning now. I apologize to Mrs. Carlson.
My piano is a lovely nineteenth century upright I have dubbed Chordelia. She has beautiful carved legs and real ivory keys. (I apologize to the animals who were sacrificed to this end.) I am told Chordelia once held court at a honky-tonk saloon in Salinas. And I apologize to Mrs. Carlson for that, too.