“The itsy-bitsy spider went up the waterspout, down came the rain and washed the spider out,” sang my new birthday doll as I watched in amazement. Standing two-foot tall, she had a small door in her back with a tiny record player inside. I placed a disc into the player and the doll came to life.
This is my earliest memory of music – a moment of pure wonder. I’ve since searched the internet, hoping to find that doll again, but no luck. Maybe it was real, or maybe it was just a dream. I may never know.
Growing up on a farm without television, most of our days were filled with chores, schoolwork, and tending the fields. We had no television. I don’t remember listening to a radio. We did have an old Victrola that my dad would play occasionally, but those moments were rare.
My true introduction to music came in fourth grade when I met a new friend, Carolyn, who played both the flute and the piano. She sparked my interest in music and before long, I found myself wanting to learn an instrument. I asked my parents if I could take piano lessons, but that was out of the question. We couldn’t afford lessons, let alone a piano. Then, my school’s music teacher, Mr. Henry, suggested I try the clarinet. The school would loan it to me, and my parents could pay for it over time. The lessons were free as part of the music education program.
I’ll never forget the first time I put together my clarinet, a sleek, ebony-black, Bundy model. I can still feel the smooth, hollow, wooden pieces as I carefully greased the corks and slid the barrel, joints, and bell together to assemble the instrument. I can still feel the shiny-metal keys, cool against my fingertips, as I press the key, trying to play a note. I even recall the distinct taste of the wooden reed as I soaked it in my mouth, getting it ready to play. These sensations are forever etched in my mind.
For the next eight years, I practiced diligently under Mr. Henry’s guidance. Over time, I earned the coveted position of First Chair in our school band. I was also selected to play in the County Band and the State Band. This gave me a sense of great pride. I had hoped it would make my dad proud, too; but he never came to my concerts. Nor do I ever remember him saying anything positive about my playing.
There were those who appreciated my music - the three sisters, Nora, Laura, and Ida, who lived together in the farmhouse across the street. Whenever I had free time, I’d walk over with my clarinet and entertain them with a “concert.”
Over time, the clarinet became my escape, as well. It carried me away from the dust and grime of farm life to a world I could only dream about—a world filled with classical melodies and Broadway tunes. A world in which I could excel if I pushed myself. And push myself I did.
Each fall, I would audition again for First Seat in the clarinet section. This was never a problem for the first three years of high school. Of course, I would be First Seat. I was the best! I practiced the hardest and the longest. No one else could come close. Until . . . Roger Martin. I remember the day like it was yesterday. . .
As I rushed down the hallway towards the band room, my loafers clicked sharply on the linoleum floor, and my clarinet case thump-thumped against my thigh. The familiar sounds of Bach’s Minuet in G. drifted through the air. “Crap, I’m late,” I muttered, picking up my pace and silently scolding myself for not getting here sooner.
Roger Martin, my competition, was already auditioning. I paused outside the door, listening as the notes from his clarinet glided up and down the octaves with ease, his reed vibrating in rich, resonant tones. A year younger than me, Roger had been gunning for my First Seat ever since he joined the band.
As I stepped into the room, I could feel his clarinet taunting me, like it knew I was unprepared. And why am I unprepared? Because I finally had a boyfriend - Ted.
Ted was new at my school, tall, lean, and extremely intelligent. In fact, his goal was to be an astronaut. That weekend, we had had our first date, and it ended with my first kiss. Since then, I couldn’t stop thinking about his dreamy, blue eyes, framed in long, charcoal-brown lashes, looking at me like I was his mom’s apple pie.
Mr. Henry launched into lavish praise of Roger’s audition as I flopped down into my seat. I quickly assembled my clarinet and began licking the hard, dry reed – another reminder of how unprepared I was. I played through a few scales to warm up, the notes feeling clumsy and rushed, as Roger calmly packed up his clarinet and walked out the door.
Mr. Henry was a tall, thin man, with a bald head that gleamed as if it had been freshly waxed. I think he was in his late 40s, though his hands trembled slightly, making him seem older.
“Are you ready for your audition, Cindy?” Mr. Henry asked, bringing me back to the present.
I felt my face burn hot and red. “Can he read my mind? Does he know I haven’t practiced all week because all I can think about is Ted?” I didn’t answer him. Instead, I nervously licked my reed and blew. It squeaked out one of those annoying Clarinet screeches, but I pushed on.
Mr. Henry tapped my hand lightly as my pinky finger hung too high over the key. “Don’t start drinking British tea,” he gently reminded me-a phrase he used numerous times to correct my technique. The notes continued to stumble out, one after another until, after three, excruciating minutes, the piece finally ended.
I glanced down at the saliva dripping from the bell of my clarinet onto my pleated skirt, then looked up to meet Mr. Henry’s eyes. The disappointment on his face said everything. His hands shook more than usual, and he didn’t say a word. He didn’t have to. I was no longer First Chair.
I was disappointed in myself. I had let Mr. Henry down - and, of course, my dad. The words, “You can’t do anything right!” echoed relentlessly in my mind, a cruel reminder that I had just proved him right. All I wanted now was to escape - escape from my mistakes, my failures, and the heavy weight of unfulfilled expectations. I continued playing in the band, as second seat; but when I graduated high school that year, I put my clarinet down and never picked it up again.
During the late 60’s, I discovered the rock and roll tunes from the 50s and 60s that I had missed growing up; icons like Elvis Presley, the Beatles, and the Beachboys. Pretty Woman, Dancing Queen, and Ain’t No Mountain High Enough filled my dorm room. These tunes fed my need to be loved, to belong, and to simply have fun. A favorite tune from this time was Mustang Sally sung by Wilson Pickett.
One of my clearest memories of this time is when I worked at a clothing store in Rehoboth Beach, Delaware, in between college semesters. It was there I met, Molly, a co-worker who owned a red mustang. I remember riding in the passenger seat of her Mustang, cruising up and down Rehoboth Boulevard, passing by the Bandstand over and over again, the sound of the Atlantic surf crashing on the sand, the smell of Dolly’s Caramel Corn drifting down from the Boardwalk, and Mustang Sally blasting from the radio for all to hear. It was pure exhilaration!
In the 1970s, I married, spent a year waiting for Bill to return from Vietnam and worked at DuPont Company. During that time, I continued to listen to songs of the 60’s and 70s.
It wasn’t until the late 70s, when I was a new mom, that I returned, briefly, to making my own music. I bought a classical guitar and began taking lessons. For a year, I practiced and genuinely enjoyed the process. I thrived on the challenge of plucking the six nylon strings with my blistered fingertips to create beautiful classical “masterpieces.” But after a series of moves, my life grew busier, and once again, I set my music aside.
During the 80s and 90s, my music tastes shifted. I raised my kids on gospel music with bands like Carmen (Gods Got an Army), Petra (Occupy), and DeGarmo and Key (Destined to Win. This music fed my need for purpose (saving the world) and accomplishment. Although I didn’t create any of this music myself, it motivated me to accomplish a great deal. I homeschooled my children K-12th grade, founded a nonprofit education center with more than 100 families enrolled, organized and led three teams of junior and senior high school students to entertain at nursing homes, taught 40 preschoolers every Sunday and Wednesday for 20 years, spoke at homeschooling seminars, and self-published four educational books that sold all over the United States and even in other countries.
But that era ended. I left the church in 2008 because of theological differences. I dissolved the education center I had founded and became a caregiver for my husband, who was now legally blind. My children were grown, living in different parts of the country, and I was looking for some new accomplishments. I decided to go back to school and finish my college degree.
I graduated at age 59 (2009) with a degree in Journalism and spent the next few years as a freelance writer. I also taught at a local private school as I continued to care for Bill. He was beginning to show signs of dementia; so, in 2014, I sold our home and moved us into independent living so I could continue to work. There was no music in our home during this time.
I didn’t revisit music again until 2024, the year I turned 74. I had moved to Galveston Island, off the Texas coast, to be near my daughter, Shelly. Bill’s Alzheimer’s had advanced to the point that I needed help with his care. Eventually, I had to place him into Memory Care, and I found myself home alone. With time on my hands, I realized it was the perfect moment to rekindle my passion for music.
On a whim, I bought an inexpensive keyboard at Sam’s Club and resolved to teach myself how to play the piano. After a few months of struggling through self-instruction, I realized I needed more help, so I hired a piano teacher, James Johnson.
James reminds me of Mr. Henry, but he’s a more youthful version. He’s patient, encouraging, and focused on helping me improve my technique. It’s been a challenge for me to transition from reading and playing the notes on the treble clef to reading and playing the bass clef notes as well. My older brain often stumbles, asking, “Is this C or E? They look the same!” I end up spending so much time counting up the staff lines that my timing slows down too much.
Physically, it’s more of a challenge now, as well. My short, arthritic thumbs make it difficult to cross “under” in order to move up the scale. I’ve had to learn to pivot more and “hop” up the scale! And use a lot of Ben-gay!
The songs in the Alfred’s Piano Level 1 aren’t my favorite genre, either. Most of them are old folk tunes, while I am drawn more to classical music. So, while James is “out of sight,” I purchase books from Wunderkeys. These exercises sound more like classical music; so, they motivate me to practice more!
Each week, when James comes for my lesson, I play from Alfred and I also play from Wunderkeys. With his instruction and my diligent practice, the results have been positive. I am beginning to feel “accomplished” again!
After a year of playing, I rewarded myself with an upgraded Roland keyboard tucked into a sleek, black stand that now holds a place on honor in my living room. In fact, when I moved to my new apartment, I based my entire decorating scheme around it. My living room is now a blend of black, gold, and white!
When I return home after a day with friends, running errands, or learning something new at OLLI’s, I find myself sitting at my piano, creating my own music. Sometimes, I imagine myself in a symphonic orchestra, feet tapping softly as the Maestro’s baton sweeps through the air, signaling my moment to play. I wonder, “Can my dad hear me now? Would he approve of my playing?”
At other times, I picture myself in lush, green field beside a shimmering crystal lake, surrounded by towering pine trees. Robins and blue jays glide above, twittering, while soft, white clouds drift lazily across the sky. A sense of peace washes over me, lifting off the blanket of loneliness, sadness, and fear as I navigate life with Bill in memory care.
But what I enjoy the most from my music is a sense of fulfillment. Learning to master the bass clef and coordinate my hands to play two different things at once challenges my brain and physical dexterity. As I master one piece, it pushes me towards another, more complex piece, giving me that sense of accomplishment that I crave.
Perhaps I’ll achieve something more tangible in the remaining years of my life; but, for now, playing music on my piano fills that need. It’s my creative sanctuary, a place where I make new musical memories, experience emotional healing, and rediscover my sense of accomplishment.
Note: Some names and details have been altered slightly for privacy reasons.
