For the entire time that I knew him, I believed my great uncle’s name was Uncle Owl. I can’t explain how that made any sense other than to say that I was very young and it was an easy thing to hear “Al” as “Owl” and not think twice. Besides, there was a very famous Owl in my world, he appeared on Mr. Rogers everyday, so certainly it couldn’t be that strange to have an uncle with the name.
I remember only snippets about him. They had a huge organ and grand piano in their mob-style home. The living room and dining room were enormous; the home obviously built with entertaining in mind. They had a dog, I imagine him as a Rottweiler, although I don’t know that he really was. I also think his name was Charlie, but I’ve shown my ability for getting names wrong already. The dog was always shut in the kitchen and had basically destroyed that room.
My great aunt and uncle played music like I had never heard before. I didn’t hear them play often, but it was memorable. I can remember visiting when my uncle “Owl” was very sick. We went into his bedroom to say our hellos, small girls with no idea of old age and death. He had a stuffed animal – a leopard- on top of his dresser and he would get it down for me so I could pet it. I was a softie for stuffed animals and having never been played with, this one was still so soft and new. It was one of those that looked as life-like as a stuffed animal can. When he died, the leopard was given to me. I treasured it all my life and still have it in the back of my closet. It’s worse for the wear of all my affection and love (and my cat’s affinity for chewing on tails) but it holds great memories for me.
My great aunt moved to another, much smaller home. I remember that one more distinctly as I was older the years we visited her there. It was never a fun trip to go see her. She could barely hear you and so conversation was stilted and difficult. Her house smelled funny to me as a child and there was little to do there. She was an incredible quilter and had made my sister and I some of the most beautiful dresses we ever wore as children. She had traded in her full grand piano for a much more practical studio version and I remember it sitting in that second house. When she died, I inherited her piano.
My dad’s sister is truly without question, the best musician our family has to offer. I remember when my grandfather visited us once and made us sit in his brand new “coffin car” as I called it- a luxury car that was so silent and padded and huge that only the very old seemed to own one, or so I thought – and while I was sitting in his precious car, he played me a tape of classical piano music and asked me who it was. I thought he meant the composer, so I was naming off Bach and Beethoven and the names I was familiar with as a young piano student. He laughed and got that proud twinkle in his eye and said, “No, that’s your Aunt Marg!” He was so proud of her.
The piano from my Great Aunt has traveled with me from Illinois to Pennsylvania, from the apartment to the house we rented. It followed me after the divorce to the apartment and now our condo. It sits proudly in the living room. Proud but silent.
I haven’t played it in years. Not played to mention, anyways. I did pluck at the keys a couple years ago when the boy I was dating wanted proof that I could play. I have tried in vain to get my son signed up for piano lessons. I can find a traditional teacher, sure, but I learned the traditional method and unless I have music in front of me, I’m useless at the keys. I wanted my whole life to be better at playing by ear; just to sit down at a party and play something. We always want what we don’t have. LM is on a waiting list, but it’s been that way for over a year, so it may not be in his cards to learn.
I don’t often think about playing. I am grateful beyond words that my parents insisted that I learn and even more grateful for their patience as I fought against that education all those years.
Tonight, in the quiet of the living room, with just a small lamp lit in the corner of the room, I long to play. I long to hear the music. I long for the ability to sit down and produce something with passion. I long for the pleasure and sense of accomplishment that comes from learning a difficult piece. I long for the outlet that it gives to my soul.
I don’t play because I have neighbors. I hate listening to their rap music and don’t want to subject them to my tedious practicing. There will be a day, though, when we have our own, single family home and I will play. I will let my fingers remember how it feels. I will let my ears and eyes guide me along the music. I will brush off the rust and learn something I played more than 20 years ago. I will remember what it feels like to create music.
And all the while, I will remember my mom. She was my most attentive audience and my biggest fan. She endured the practicing, the recitals, the talent shows, the battles over practicing. She would sit and listen. Sometimes she would even ask me to play for her.
One of these days, I will play again. For the both of us.
Blessed Little Things 