By Lisa Lucke
Age 9 at the time 

Mrs. Winton had barely finished forming the phrases “school assembly” and “music recital,” and my nine-year old heart was already pounding. I tracked her every move as she made it clear that “yes, families were invited.” This meant that I would actually be up on the stage, violin nestled under my chin, and my hand carefully sliding the thin bow over the taut strings, just the way Mrs. Winton had taught me to do. I’d only been playing for a few months, like everyone else in the 4^th grade with their chosen instruments, but I was absolutely sure of my abilities. Every Wednesday afternoon, instead of going to last recess, I walked to the cafeteria for music. I was proud of myself, and most of all, I felt important.

At the sound of the 3 p.m. bell, I ran the two blocks to my house, where I found my father mowing the lawn. “Dad!” I shouted over the grinding noise of the push mower. “We’re having a recital in two weeks and guess what?” My dad rotated the mower at the end of the long row and managed a breathy response.

“What?”

“Family gets to come and it’s in front of the whole school and it’s at night!”

“That’s great Ellen. Go call Mom and tell her the good news.”

The days flew by, filled with extra practices after school, and rehearsals that folded in every detail, from where we would sit and who we’d sit next to, to reminders about how to dress. One by one, Mrs. Winton fine tuned our weaknesses with gentle admonishments, as if we ourselves were the instruments and she the player. Finally, at the end of two weeks, we were ready. I couldn’t believe that this unlikely instrument, the third I’d tried in as many years, the one my mom said was my great-grandmother’s passion, would be the one to propel me into the spotlight, and out of ordinary.

I had decided the same thing about the accordion two years before, in second grade. Mr. Carlotti, a seemingly ancient man, found my two best friends first. They were sisters, and lived just a couple doors down from me. One Saturday morning, the seemingly ancient man trod door to door in our neighborhood, looking for prospective students. Chrissie and Debbie’s mom said yes, and before he had even left their porch, the girls sprinted down the sidewalk, past the cranky neighbor’s house that separated us, and flew up my porch steps. I opened the door to their frantic chattering that I must get my mom to say yes to accordion lessons, though just what an accordion was I didn’t exactly know. When Mr. Carlotti reached my door, after old Mrs. Tadblink shooed him away, the polite gentleman in the dark brown suit got lucky again.

The three of us, Mr. Carlotti’s only students, wedged into his tiny office in the basement of the public library each Saturday morning. We had exactly four lessons before what I now realize was Mr. Carlotti’s likely overdue passing. I wasn’t so much sad for poor old Mr. Carlotti as I was for me. I wanted to get good at something, and the accordion was different, so different than any other instrument most kids played. For me, different meant special, and special meant better.

I tried again the following year, in third grade. I took piano lessons from a spinster living across town in an aging Victorian with a slobbering, monster of a dog who rested his mouth, complete with gloppy tennis ball, between my knees as I played. Miss Ricky hugged me the first time I entered her house, and every time after that. She hugged me goodbye, too. She may have even hugged me after each song – I just remember her thin, yet surprisingly strong arms squeezing my shoulders in a lovely vice-grip, and her nervous, happy voice prattling all the time. Miss Ricky’s corrections came in the same tone as praise: soft and encouraging. She ended each lesson by playing anything I wanted, and without exception, I chose one of Joplin’s rags. I loved to watch Miss Ricky’s bony shoulders and arms and fingers vibrate up and down and that silly look on her face that resembled a smile but may have just been the natural slope of her wrinkled, oval face. I also remember that she seemed to be somewhere else – somewhere I wanted to be, without even knowing why.

For three months I played at Miss Ricky’s house, which ended up being the problem. My parents decided that without a piano of our own at home to practice on, I was not making any real progress, and therefore, lessons were pointless. The decision took me totally by surprise, and of course, I disagreed. In my mind, and definitely in Miss Ricky’s, I was doing just fine. Besides that, I enjoyed the lessons, which were more like a trip to a carnival than work, and most of all, Miss Ricky needed me. Why else would she insist on showing off the endless upstairs rooms of her house each week after our lesson ended, and keep introducing me to the relatives who stared out at her antics from behind dusty glass? How could I make my parents understand that progress really wasn’t important to me, but spending time with Miss Ricky was? I couldn’t, so I quit the lessons and reluctantly said goodbye to Miss Ricky.

Now, just one year later, under the direction of Mrs. Winton, I would reveal my musical talents to the world with the violin.

At 6 p.m. promptly, on a Friday evening in late October, Mrs. Winton took center stage, in front of the heavy, velvet stage drapes and welcomed the assembled parents, relatives and teachers to the 4th Grade Fall Music Recital. Behind the curtain, my classmates and I sat in our assigned seats – I near the end of the third row, between two other violin playing 4th graders. I knew I’d be able to catch a glimpse of my parents between pieces, and I was already imagining how proud they’d look. I wiped my hands on my jumpsuit and tried to stay calm. At 6:03 p.m., the curtains parted a crack and Mrs. Winton slipped back through, looking us over for the last time. As she quickly made her way toward the wings, we made eye contact, and she stopped just long enough to whisper one, simple sentence in my ear that remains with me to this day, 33 years later:

“Ellen, I want you to pretend to be playing.”

With that, the curtain rose.

This entry was posted on Sunday, October 12th, 2008 at 11:20 pm and is filed under "Can I Sit With You", accordian, disappointment, elementary school, fourth grade, music, orchestra, self esteem, supportive parents, violin.You can follow any responses to this entry through the RSS 2.0 feed. You can leave a response, or trackback from your own site.