As Time Goes By

Part One

I was 19 years old when I taught myself to play the piano. I began by finding middle C and then counting up and down the staffs and the keys in an attempt to replicate a melody with my right hand.

My mother had recently purchased a small spinet that fit tightly within the living/dining area of our three-room apartment on Richfield Road in Upper Darby, Pennsylvania. My father was living with us, but hadn’t had a job since I was very young, while my mother earned a modest income illustrating fashion accessories for the Gimbels department store in downtown Philadelphia.

I was attending Temple Technical Institute, but had grown up to love music of many genres.  I’d recently purchased a stereo and speakers with money I earned from the co-op job found for me by the placement office at Temple Tech. My taste in music was the songbook of the day, older songs my mother played while I was growing up, as well as songs by popular groups of my era, many old songs newly recorded by The Platters, Flamingoes, Duprees, Skyliners and a host of others of the Doo Wop era.

My mother hadn’t played a piano since her failed attempt at a career as a cocktail pianist in 1956, after we had moved into a small apartment in the Stonehurst section of Upper Darby Township. She’d purchased song sheets of contemporary music which included the score and lyrics of “Que Sera, Sera” from the Hitchcock film The Man Who Knew Too Much; the complete library of songs from the broadway shows The Sound of Music, My Fair Lady, and The Most Happy Fellow; and the complete piano score for George Gershwin’s modern opera, Porgy and Bess.

Though our leased piano was repossessed when my parents could no longer pay the rental fee, the music sheets survived our move to Richfield Road and I discovered them ten years later, at which time my mother was earning enough money to purchase a Lester spinet piano.

I didn’t care much about the engineering trade, and wasn’t suited for the engineering courses provided at Temple Tech. I was despondent about my first co-op assignment in the engineering department at the Stein Seal Company in North Philadelphia. My functions were mostly clerical, and included filing and making white prints of engineering drawings produced by the designers at the firm. The highlight of my day was driving to and from work, during which I alternated listening between the music played on WFLN, Philadelphia’s classical radio station, and WIBG, Philadelphia’s pop station that spun the top hits of the day as well as oldies, which at that time were songs recorded prior to 1960.

After returning home from Temple one autumn afternoon, I picked up one of my mother’s song sheets and decided to learn the piano.

I’d practice for an hour or so while my father played solitaire at a small table in one corner of the room before preparing dinner for us, served shortly after my mother returned home from work. Over a three-year period, I added classical numbers to my repertoire, always attempting to  play the right-hand melody line, before integrating it with the bass line played by my left hand.

At one point, I genuinely believed it possible that I might become a pianist like my mother, if I was diligent and practiced each day. But unlike my mother, who had started lessons at the age of three and had a natural ear for music, I based my future success on a half-year of training at the age of six, at which time I completed, and soon forgot, “Book One“ of Easy Piano for Children.

After completing my grammar school education at Stonehurst Hills Elementary, I was promoted to Beverly Hills Junior High School, at which time my ability to learn from my teachers plummeted. I could read and comprehend the meaning of the stories in books quite quickly, but I had lost the instant recall that I had at a younger age, which cause difficulty in memorizing poems, spelling words, retaining the words of musical lyrics and the ability to solve mathematical problems.

By the age of 19, I had minimal music memory, and although I had volunteered for the glee club in junior high and sang in the tenor section in the church choir, I’d noticed the absence of several skills essential to becoming a musician, including the translation of notes viewed by my eyes to my fingers as they struck the keys. And although I believed I had a sense of pitch, since I could tell when I hit the wrong notes, my fingers seemed to act on their own no matter how many times I practiced a passage. I also discovered that I was unable to harmonize or transpose my singing voice to sing or play in a different key, or to follow along with other musicians performing together in synchronicity.

In my mind, I believed that if I’d been taught by a teacher, he or she would have assigned exercises or scales for me to play, while on my own. I chose only to learn songs which failed to tax my manual dexterity, a problem that continued to plague me through all of the years I attempted to play the piano.

On the plus side, I had done what many others could not. I had learned to read music and play a number of pieces fairly well without a lot of practice, a skill which over the years improved by my ability to sight read many songs, rather than learning, and playing well, a small repertoire of songs as I had at the age of six.   

Maintaining the delusions of my capabilities and work habits, I also believed that I might possibly, one day, become an actor, and had auditioned for parts in musicals produced by the Playmakers, a thespian group that performed on a small stage in the parish house of St. Giles Church. 

My singing voice was average, at best. And although I could perform parts perfectly well while reading for auditions, my memory failed me once a script was removed from view, at which point I stumbled over the words, even after several rounds of practice. During my late teens, I appeared in the Playmakers as a chorus member in The King and I, a no-named knight in Camelot, a street sweeper and dancer in My Fair Lady, and a singing sailor in the chorus of South Pacific. 

My biggest role in Playmakers’ cast was the part of “Rolf,” the German messenger boy, in The Sound of Music. That required me to perform a duet with a sixteen-year-old female member of the cast who discovered she was pregnant by her soldier boyfriend prior to opening night, an ironic twist for those of us who knew the message of the song “Sixteen Going on 17” in which the youth purports to be the young girl’s protector.

The musical was scheduled for performance on the first two Fridays and Saturdays in May, and I was selected to share the Friday night performances with another boy, while the music director’s more talented son was awarded the role for both Saturday night performances.

At the age of 22, I was drafted by another theater group located in nearby Havertown to play the supporting role of the teenage son in a comedy that originally starred Durward Kirby in  a summer stock theater in Michigan. As usual, I had difficulty memorizing my lines, but managed to fake my way through the two nights without embarrassment. As one of the benefits of being selected, I had my portrait professionally photographed, in which I appeared in a black turtleneck sweater and sporting long sideburns.

During this period of my life, I was unhappily employed as a draftsman and dated an older girl, Dorothy, who I had met during the Playmakers’ production of My Fair Lady. She was a dancer and quite striking, with a nice figure, but we hadn’t much in common except for our membership in the thespian group. She was a bit naive, or pretended to be, and was emotionally controlling, something I learned only later in our relationship.

Not caring much for my job and with the thought of breaking up with my girlfriend, a male friend of mine and I decided to leave our jobs early one Friday and drive to New England in my MGB convertible to start a new life. My friend thought he could get a job anywhere, since he had served in the Air Force and had lived on his own, peeling vegetables at a small restaurant in Truro, Massachusetts, after his discharge. I, on the other hand, had never left home and had armed myself with only a few clothes, my resumé as a theater performer and a draftsman, a roll of recent white prints of exploded views I’d inked of aircraft gear, and the black and white portrait taken of me as an actor.

After reaching Old Greenwich, Connecticut, I realized how unprepared I was to adjust to a new life, while also overcome by the feeling of guilt about leaving my girlfriend without notice, or any announcement to Frank, my traveling buddy, of my decision to return home. I exited the highway and announced abruptly that I was returning home. As one might expect, he became quite angry, but it was my car and I had made the decision to return, which resulted in a total lack of conversation during the ride home.

We reached his house at 11:30 that night. He grabbed his duffel bag from the bin behind his seat and slammed the door. I went home to my parents’ apartment and called Dorothy, who had known nothing about my plan to escape her. I calmed down during the night, but woke up the next morning in dread of the future and paralyzed by defeat.

The next day my friend’s mother called me at home. My father answered and passed the call along to me.

“Thanks for convincing my son to come home,” she said. “He seemed to have no plan, but there was nothing I could say to stop him.”

I accepted her thanks, knowing that I had been a coward and not a savior. I returned to my job on Monday, having no idea how to navigate a path out of my current life.

----------------------------------------- 

Part Two

I continued to practice the piano and remained steady with Dorothy. I also began to draw portraits of the people with whom I worked in pastels and charcoal. I taught myself to  paint with a new medium, acrylics, on canvas and started a series of gloomy surrealistic landscapes populated by three-dimensional stick  figures with tubular arms and legs and ball-like heads bent over in perpetual defeat. I realized at that point that I would never have the skills or discipline to become an actor, and decided I should work towards a career in art. I never asked my mother for her opinion or assistance with my artwork or the piano, and she rarely commented. 

Having graduated from art school in the 1930s, my mother realized early on how difficult it was to secure a job or eke out a viable living in the art world, and steered me away from ever considering a career path proven to be one leading to poverty.

Despite my mother’s doubts, while working as a technical illustrator at Clifton Precision I signed up for two evening courses at the Philadelphia College of Art, with the tuition surprisingly paid for by my employer. I enjoyed the teacher and the projects in Color and Design, but was unsuited for  the drawing class, which stressed freedom-in-motion rather than technique. As a technical illustrator, I was rigid, and I brought that rigidity into my early portraits and painting, which ultimately became a benefit to me.

After enrolling in a second semester of figure drawing, I dropped out of the course, but only after I applied for a job posted on the college bulletin board.

TRAFFIC COORDINATOR NEEDED

for suburban firm to coordinate the production of slide art from

concept to delivery. Must have an organized mind. Artistic training desirable.

Call Harry: 215-524-3876

Photo Finish Service, LLC.

Garrett Road, Upper Darby, Pa.

I was pleased and shocked to see that the job was within walking distance of my parents’ apartment, so if I got the job, I could sleep later and would no longer need to drive to and from Drexel Hill to work. The next morning I called the number on the slip of paper and spoke to Harry, and scheduled an interview for that afternoon at the conclusion of my workday. 

The offices weren’t exactly arty or what I had expected, and Harry was a little too friendly, although I seemed to impress him. At the conclusion of the interview he tweaked my crotch. I flinched at the act, but he immediately asked me, “when can you start?”

The tweak should have given me doubts about Harry, but I was so pleased to have a job in the art field, that I went into work the next morning and told my boss I was quitting. He was surprised, especially since he had just approved the payment for my second drawing course at PCA. But, he also knew that I had my hopes set on another career, and he told me that there was no reason for me to stick around, since all of my work for the most recent manual had been completed.

I started work at Photo Finish the next day... and lasted only three months at the job before I was fired along with four others on his staff who, like me, had all been tweaked by Harry, and had not responded favorably.

I accepted their reasons for their termination  as  being similar to mine, but I knew that I wasn’t as organized as I had claimed to be, and had been there just long enough to learn how to prepare mechanical art, produce cartoon cells for photography, and to build a commercial portfolio in hopes of acquiring a real job in the art profession.

Within two months, I landed a job at a bank research firm in need of a chart artist, a job similar to that of a sign painter, but one that used color markers instead of paint, and large paper pads instead of windows, walls or plywood. Fortunately, the firm also had a need for slide presentations, exhibition materials and brochures, and over the next five years of employment at the firm I never once was required to hand-letter a chart.

At the same time that I’d found a bit of hope for a viable future, my guilt set in for stringing along Dorothy, who had stayed with me despite my uninspired search for a trade, career or job in which I could succeed and remain employed.

Before the end of 1972, Dorothy and  were engaged and found an apartment to rent, and were married the following April. Hoping that her passion for dance and mine for theater and art would help create a stronger bond between us, her parents purchased a well-worn Kurtzmann baby grand for us as a wedding gift.

I was indeed lucky to finally have a job that permitted me to hone my illustration skills, and over the next few years I learned to construct scripts for presentations and write copy for brochures as well as create the art necessary to complement the materials I produced.

in 1975, a pen and ink drawing I had submitted was accepted into the New York Society of Illustrators Annual, and had competed in a scriptwriting contest in competition with my boss, intended to celebrate the American Bicentennial. I wrote about Paul Revere, and my boss won the contest with a skillfully executed 18th century American courtroom drama. I then countered with play based on Waiting for Godot, believing that perhaps I, too, could become a professional playwright.

Although I remained convinced that I would never achieve financial success, my dreams of becoming celebrated weren’t hampered by my lack of education or dependent on any knowledge or skills I didn’t have to execute a project. Many of those around me must have thought me oblivious to my ignorance as I took on an assortment of challenges which included opening a design firm in my home in 1978, renting office space in 1980,  and including advertising, marketing and public relations to my list of offerings despite having little or no experience in these fields.

After turning 30, I knew that it was time to settle down, and with some success behind me I figured that, despite our mismatched goals and priorities, my wife and I just might close the gaps between us by adding a child into our relationship. But, as it turned out, our distances grew wider and our conflicting views on parenting, religion, and dreams for the future only drove us further apart. Even before Denise was born we’d emotionally separated, and little more than a year after her birth I rented a room not far from my office, to relieve the stress between Dorothy and me.

I accepted that I was the bad guy, leaving the marriage with a small child in the mix, so I went to counseling, and then asked Dorothy to join me. But the sessions only amplified the differences between us, and during the counseling I finally had a forum to voice the disagreements we had...about just  about everything.

Dorothy tried to impress the counselor with her revelations about the changes she’d seen in me, the feelings I’d kept buried, and the indifference I exhibited towards her, but  never verbally expressed. 

I was also well aware of the effect that the arguments between us had on our Denise, and I explained to the counselor that I could find no reason that Dorothy and I couldn’t be civil in front of her, despite our separation. The counselor agreed, and set parameters for my wife and me to follow when speaking in front of our daughter, one being that we’d cross paths as little as possible.

He told us that the only way shared custody would work for us was to settle on a meeting point half the distance between wherever I was living and her house, an arrangement that we maintained until Denise was old enough to drive herself to and from our residences.

------------------------------------

After a few months of trying to live in the rented room in Swarthmore, I found a second-story loft apartment in a blacksmith’s shop in nearby Newtown Square. The large living area had skylights and two bedrooms, so with the assistance of our family counselor, Denise would spend there three weekends a month and one midweek evening for dinner. The apartment offered plenty of space for me to paint, which I did while listening to music in the evenings. The piano remained at the house that my wife still inhabited.

Between business projects, painting, and visits with my daughter, my weeks were full. I also began to date occasionally, with varying results. But having dated little as a teen, by my mid-30s I seemed to prefer friendships over romances. One such friend, Sara, who had recently separated from her husband, had two young children. Our friendship grew over time into a relationship, and in March of 1984, we were married at an historic Chester County home with a few friends and relatives in attendance, including all three of our children.

Sara’s house was charming, but small, and she and her husband had split amiably, but like me he had rented an apartment until Sara and I  found a house suitable for a family of five, since Denise would need her own room when she stayed with me, Sara and her children.

We found a former tenant home in Radnor dating back to 1876 and, though it needed a lot of work, we were able to move into it that November. I stopped producing paintings and spent my spare time renovating rooms, building cabinets, painting and papering walls and rebuilding shutters. 

After the living room and dining room were made livable, I negotiated with Dorothy to acquire our Kutzmann baby grand that had remained in her house unused, and suggested that I pay the complete tuition for Denise’s private school education in trade for it.

When it arrived, I began where I’d left off with my playing more than three years before, and again convinced myself that I had noticeably improved, even though I still could not play by ear, struggled with clumsy fingering transitions and often failed to play rhythmically even the easiest of pieces.

No one commented negatively about my playing, since I had built a repertoire of relatively easy songs to perform whenever anyone was present. Sometimes, after a couple of drinks, I’d attempt to discard the notes on the page and improvise. It was fortunate that few ever heard those attempts, since I had no gift for the music I played, and instead, only the desire and the passion to perform it. 

After having the Kutzmann evaluated by a tuner, he sadly reported that the piano, even after his current tuning, was beyond repair. The tuning pins had been tapped many years back, but had loosened and any further repair of the piano would cost more than the instrument was worth. So, I again stopped playing and devoted my time to my art, home renovations, my job, and the restoration of a 1953 MG TD I had purchased as a “project car” in 1995.

While working on art projects or my car, I would listen to jazz, country and classical music, and was rewarded for my artistic efforts by finally creating a market for my artwork shortly after Denise graduated from Indiana University of Pennsylvania and I was approaching the age of 60. Although I hadn’t pined over the loss of my piano during the preceding 10 or 11 years, I still looked over at it from my side of  the fireplace with regret that my relationship, with the instrument was now relegated to a past life, while a part of me still believed that I could continue to accomplish any task I chose to undertake.

Sara, my wife of now 20 years, surprised me on Christmas morning of my 59th year with a card that stated that  I was the recipient of a newly refurbished baby grand from the Cunningham Piano Company to replace the Kurtzmann. Sara had worried about my reaction to the gift, but I cried with happiness as I envisioned a new chance for success at a quest almost forgotten.

For more than a year, I purchased new music online, and played nightly to round out my repertoire. Sara was delighted that I approached the instrument with zeal, and I once again self-evaluated my progress, believing that I, indeed, was growing and improving.

The realities of my quest came to me during the Christmas season of 2019, when Sara had asked each of our children and grandchildren to contribute a poem, song, comedy sketch or a reading for a family video with hopes of noting the accomplishments of our lives during the past year. Sara’s sons, Brian, Jeffrey, and I shared the camera work, while I volunteered to assemble the video into a complete presentation and load it onto Vimeo for anyone to see.

Sara, our daughter-in-law, Kelly, and her daughter, Madison, all chose classical pieces to play on the piano. Denise wrote a story about her first month in college at Indiana University of Pennsylvania. Madison’s sister, Darla, choreographed an acrobatic routine, Brian played a drum solo, and Jeffrey and his partner Luke performed a song written and animated by Luke. Our other grandchildren were too young to do more than wish everyone a Happy New Year, and our sons-in-law decided not to participate. I had picked one of my favorite songs to play on the piano: Jerome Kern’s “Can’t Help Lovin’ Dat Man,” from the musical, Showboat. 

Sara had taken piano lessons as a child, but  and selected Gabriel Fauré’s “Pavane” for her piece. Self-conscious about her abilities, she practiced throughout the Christmas season when no one was watching, or in the house to listen. Kelly had taken both piano and violin lessons through high school, and Madison had been playing and writing compositions with her teacher since she was six. Luke was a gifted cartoonist and played and wrote music for the ukulele and had written, illustrated and published several children’s books. 

I recorded Sara’s Fauré piece and my own Jerome Kern number, figuring that with cuts that I’d make it, would be worthy of the production. In preparation, I practiced the Kern number several times before recording it, and decided I could fix any mistakes I’d make in post-production. I decided I’d set the camera up in three positions: the first through the lid where people would view my face from the front; the second with the piano aimed only at my hands; and the third of me from the right side with my hands not in view.

In this format, I could use the version of my hands shown striking the keys for the audio of all three views, since after they were edited together, no one would see my hands in the other two views.

Two weeks before Christmas each participant dropped off, or sent via email or Hightail, a video containing his, her, or their performance or chosen activity with New Years greeting included. I reviewed each of the videos prior to uploading them to my computer. The youngest grandchildren were adorable and their greeting most playful. My daughter-in-law played Claude DeBussy’s “Clair de lune” beautifully, and my stepson, Brian, set the camera up to photograph both her and their daughter Madison’s performance of “Chopin’s Nocturne in E-flat major.”

My daughter’s reading of her trauma after being abandoned at college her first day by Sara and me was moving and well done. Brian recorded himself in three different positions playing on three separate drum sets, and Jeff and Luke’s playful animated spot was humorous and remarkably professional. 

Despite Sara’s fretting over her playing of the Fauré piece, she did an excellent job, especially after not having played much in more than 40 years. Darla’s acrobatic routine was quite surprising, since she also filmed and edited her own acrobatic dance to a segment of Saint-Saëns’ spirited wild animals segment of “The Carnival of the Animals.”

I hadn’t yet reviewed my segment except in preview as I sped through the raw footage on the camera. In looking at it more closely, I realized just how uneven and amateurish each version was in pacing and timing, as if I was reaching for notes I had never played or heard before. I thought that maybe there was a flaw in the audio, but realized that my setup was similar to Sara’s, and her Fauré rendition sounded fine, while mine was a disaster. As I viewed the footage of me reading the notes, I literally looked like a wild animal caught in the headlights, as my eyes darted from the song sheets to my hands and back again in bewilderment.

Kelly’s performance was smoothly done and her hands danced lightly over the keys. And, according to her father, Madison never made one mistake, and what was produced was her first take.

All I could think of was the many times I’d performed for guests both in my past and current life for nearly 40 years. How could I have missed the obvious? Like the naked emperor showing off his new clothes, I was led to believe that I played the piano fairly well, which meant that I also may have failed as a painter, filmmaker and designer, a fact that no one ever told me to my face.

I assembled the performances, including mine, and the entire family was moved by the collaboration and applauded the performances. I had to admit there was a lot of talent included in the New Year’s piece, but I wasn’t part of it.

It took a week to get up the courage to ask Sara what she thought of the performances, and she said she felt the whole exercise was a valuable experience. I dug deeper and asked how she thought I did on mine, and she answered, “You did just fine.”

That was the last time I played the piano... until I turned 75.

Part Three

Sara had heard of a young inventor, Sigma Medolf, a graduate of Stanford, who had grown up with a learning disability and was working on a project to teach students of any age how to learn. She told me that she had viewed Medolf’s TED Talk on the subject posted on YouTube, and the success he’d had in developing an app and merging it with a visual reality headset to assist people with learning disabilities, individuals recovering from strokes, and the elderly in attempting to learn tasks at a later age.

“One retired truck driver became a magician,” Sara said, “and performed at the Bellagio in Vegas. Another man, a retired shrimp fisherman, was able to improve his memory by breaking it into what Medolf categorized as ‘chunks,’ and appeared on the TV show Jeopardy at the age of 83.

“Medolf’s most recent invention coupled the headsets with artificial intelligence to provide an educational model suited to the various learning styles of people of any age.

“He used examples of thousands of people, just like you, who weren’t able to follow conventional guidelines presented by human teachers who hadn’t the patience, tolerance or skills to educate slow learners, fast learners, thoughtful learners and many who don’t fit into any category.

“Give the glasses a try and see if you can find your home in music rather than continuing to be an outsider.”

I had never had an interest in gaming, but I loved music, although I had finally given up on improvement. The fact that Sara had researched it and had provide me with a headset set up with audio/visual prompts was extremely thoughtful and fascinating, although somewhat insulting.

But after she left for the market, I read the instructions, sat down at the piano I hadn’t played for four years, put on the glasses and stared through the lenses at the keys I’d not touched for three years.

Once activated, I heard the Voice: “Hello, George!

”It’s nice meeting you and seeing you back at the piano after so long. Are you ready to learn how to play, or are you too frustrated by defeat to take a chance to have me as your coach?”

“Who the hell are you? And how do you know about me?”

“I’ve been hired by Sara as your coach. She’s told me all about you and your dream of playing the piano.

“I can’t guarantee that you’ll ever play was well as your mother, but I can promise you that as long as you stick with it for a while, you’ll be able to play well enough to astound yourself and an audience after all these years.”

“Frankly, I can’t see how you’d do that,“ I said with anger in my voice. “I’ve actually seen the ghosts of Christmas past and present and have come to grips with the fact that I have no musical talent.”

“You may think that,” responded the Voice, “but Sara hired me to assist you in making some of what you’ve dreamed into a reality.”

“I’m not good with teachers,“ I countered.

“And I’m not good with people who can’t get past their weaknesses. You’ve proven your ability to grow and learn. Now all you need do is apply those skills to music. Are you ready to begin?”

“Do I have an option?”

“Yes. You can disappoint Sara and throw the headset in the trashcan.“

I thought about doing just that, but instead asked, “Is this apparatus on correctly?”

“You seem to hear me well enough, so I guess the next step will be to look through the lenses at your hands, and place them on the keyboard the way you normally would start.“

“I don’t normally start anywhere except for looking at the music I’m about to read.”

“I’d prefer that you look at the green set of hands on the keyboard and place your hands over them.“

I did that.

“Now we’re going to play a scale, as slowly as needed for you to follow the green fingers underneath your own hands.”

I did that and then followed the green hands with my fingers.

“Good,“ said the Voice. “Now we are going to play the scale a little faster. If it gets too fast, we’ll slow it down a notch.“

I followed the keys easily to the end of the scale.

“Good. Let’s do it a little faster and return to your starting position.”

I followed the scale up the keyboard and returned to the resting at exactly the same exact time as did the green fingers.

“Can we try that again... a little faster?”  asked the Voice.

“Sure,“ I said.

And after I followed the fingers up the scale and returned, the Voice told me that the next time, I would do it on my own, without the green fingers.

And I did it.

“Now repeat that several times.“

I repeated the scale several times.

“Now, can you remember what you just did?“

“Sure,” I said, with a bit of annoyance in my voice.

So then I repeated the scale again and again until the voice stopped me.

“Now, we’re going to try going in the opposite direction.“

The green hands appeared again, and I had to follow them with both hands to the left and back to the center. After several times, the Voice asked me if I could remember going up the scale to the right. I said that I could... and did.

“Now reverse your direction and again go towards your right and then continue to your left past the center.”

I did that.

“Good. Now let’s do that whole exercise twenty times, without the green fingers.“

I repeated it 24 times just to prove I could do it.

“Now I’m going to add a metronome into the mix and provide clicks to even out your playing. We’ll start slow, but let me know if you have any problems and we’ll slow it down further.“

I listened to the metronome, and attempted to play the scale, trying hard and as best I could to hit the correct notes at the correct times. A scorecard came up in the corner of my glasses letting me know how many time I missed the correct notes over the course of the exercise.

“Not bad for a first attempt,“ said the Voice. “I think this is enough of a lesson for today. If you’d like to continue, just see on your own if you can get close to perfect score. Then we can continue tomorrow if you’d like.“

I actually spent about an hour playing the scales until my hands hurt, and succeeded in making only six errors in twenty attempts.

And that’s how I began to learn to play the piano.

--------------------------------------------

After six weeks of practicing scales and rhythms, I advanced to playing a simple song. The song was composed by the same Voice that had led me through the exercises. I was surprised that after several attempts, I no longer needed the music in front of me, and was pleased with my improvement.

Being that I was nearly totally retired, I devoted any free time I had to practicing the exercises created for me by my virtual teacher. I was well aware that the Voice had no genuine caring for me or for my playing, but its encouragement spurred me on, and I strove to please it by carefully following its instructions.

Sara commented on my improvement, and I could feel the confidence build in me as I linked together rhythmic passages and actually remembered them.

We worked on the subtleties of performance and harmony and pitch, but those areas of musicality were still foreign to me, as was the ability to transcribe a melody from one song to another.

The Voice made me aware of my limits, but also of the strides I’d made, which included my ability to play a whole piece of music without a song sheet in front of me after only three attempts using the score. I also noticed a sensation of adding my own  feeling into my playing that had little to do with the written notations.

The finger exercises had vastly improved my playing over the course of only a month, as the Voice gradually added more challenging pieces into my repertoire.

I wondered after one session with the Voice,  whether  I would have become better if I’d been able to continue with lessons after the age of six. When I questioned the Voice about the possibility of me becoming successful in music if I had  had early training, it reminded me that my gifts were strongest in the visual arts, writing and conceptualization. “No amount of instruction can replace natural talent,” it said. “You’ve been fortunate to have been given so many abilities. All I can do is make you become a better pianist than you would have been without training.”

I wondered at the wisdom of the Voice, and asked it how close it seemed to that of a human.

It answered, “I can understand humanity, but I lack the wondrous traits of humanity. I have no ego, guile or evil thoughts. I can tell when you play with emotion, and know from listening to thousands of piano pieces which ones reveal the humanity tucked away inside musicians. If I played, I would be exacting, and maybe even replicate emotion into my performance, but it would matter little to me.

“My job is to help you and others like you to become the best you can be at whatever you chose to do. There are those whom I can help very little, and those who don’t need me for anything but encouragement or to gain perfection. So I am a tool, and have no identity of my own.

“But enough about me.

“Today we’re going to revisit a couple of your favorite songs you revealed to me prior to our first session together. I hope this isn’t too soon to take on the challenge, but I could tell how troubled you were by your poor piano performance of “Can’t Help Lovin’ Dat Man,“ the piece you chose for your segment of the family collaboration a few years back.“

“It still bothers me after all this time,” I admitted. “It made me doubt everything I thought I’d done well throughout my life.“

“And, I assume you haven’t played the song since?”

“Nor any other piece until our sessions together.”

“Are you brave enough to now give the song another try?”

“Only if we can break it into ‘chunks’ like we’ve done with other songs you’ve taught me and not jump into playing the entire song through.”

“You call the shots on that,“ said the Voice.

“Well then, I‘d like to add the verse before the chorus. And I’d like to try another arrangement of the song than the one I played for the family video.“

“That’s it?“ asked the Voice.

“And I want to learn the song.... not just sight-read the music.”

“Okay. I’ll send an email to you with the song sheet of an improvisation played by a pianist, Charles Manning. He isn’t a professional, but his arrangement will allow you some artistic freedom. Just, please don’t look up Manning’s version on YouTube prior to your performance.”

“Sounds good to me.”

“And if you feel comfortable adding your own flourishes, you certainly may. You can begin practicing the piece on your own, but use the metronome until you’re sure about the pacing.”

“Will do.”

------------------------------------------------

I received a message on my phone within minutes of the request that provided a link to a .pdf from the Voice’s app provider. I downloaded the music and printed it from my computer. The first thing I noticed was that the Voice was right: the Manning version was not a difficult arrangement.

I rushed down to the living room, put the music on the piano rack, sat down and positioned my hands at the beginning notes shown on the song sheet. No lyrics accompanied the score, but I could tell immediately that there was a light, casual touch required for  the intro that lingered over 13 bars and occupied nearly one-third of the entire score, before heading into the familiar chorus.

The fingering for Manning’s score wasn’t complex, but I decided to use the metronome as I read and played the song, which ended with a Gershwin-like flourish.

Surprisingly, I didn’t miss many of the notes in the my first run-through, and with the metronome sped up a bit, I gave the song a second play before breaking it into the chunks as recommended by the Voice.

Fortunately, Sara wasn’t home during the many variations I tried with each segment, repeatedly replaying difficult passages at different speeds to assure myself that I could play them without altering the rhythm.

Once I was satisfied, I removed the song sheets from the rack and began from the beginning. I found that for the first time in my life, I could play an entire song without having the notes in front of me. It was so startling that I began to take liberties while I played, adding trills and segues not written in the score.

Three hours later, Sara came home, and I played to her from memory. 

“You learned that song, while I was out!” she exclaimed.

I smiled and shook my head, and played it once more, adding other slight variations.

“Well, that app and equipment I bought you has certainly made a difference.“

I knew it had, but was most interested in putting my VR glasses on and playing what I’d learned that day to the Voice.

I logged in and after its usual cheery greeting, it asked how it could help me. I explained what I had done throughout the day, and then played through the entire song from memory.

“Bravo!” said the Voice. “I do have a few small suggestions, but I’m impressed that you remembered the entire song and were able to improvise a bit.”

“I’m the one who’s astounded!” I shouted.

The Voice calmly said, “Now I’m going to let you hear the piece as played by Mr. Manning.”

After only a brief pause, I saw Manning seated at the keyboard from a place where his profile and hands were visible. As the intro began, it sounded quite familiar, since I’d been playing the arrangement for several hours. But though the pacing was similar to mine, and the note strikes similar, I could note a few slight stumbles before the beginning of the melody. As I listened, I realized that Manning’s version was less impressive than I’d expected, and somewhat lacking. I also noted that at the end of the song, there was a need for a bit more complexity, which I had added.

I said something to the Voice about the ending, and it agreed that my ending was stronger, but also pointed out a few ways I could improve my version. The Voice then told me to work on my scales in the key of E-flat, and then signed off.

Part Four

Over the next two months, by continuing to use the tools shared with me by the Voice, my playing continued to improve, but I still had not acquired an ear for harmony and transposition, and couldn’t tell anyone what key I was playing in without the musical notations provided on the music. Although I couldn’t hear the transitions, I used the guidelines given to me by the Voice to switch keys through the mechanics of chord progression, without having a natural ability.

After two additional months of experimental playing of many types of music, and committing some to memory, I could play a small repertoire for my family and supplement my performance with songs sightread from the music kept in a binder on the rack.

During that period, I completely stopped painting, and devoted my free time to practicing the piano only rarely putting on the headset to discuss improvements of my performance with the Voice.

------------------------------------------------

A year later, Sara had a stroke, so with the assistance of our kids we moved into a single-level villa at “Sunlit Gardens,“ a retirement community not far from our home and those of our children. Since our new place was far smaller than the home in which we had raised our family, I discarded my painting easel, referred my remaining list of accounts to other design and promotional firms, and sold the baby grand that had been the centerpiece of our living room.

Fortunately, Sunlit Gardens had a large recreational room with a stage used for meetings, presentations, weddings and concerts. The stage was equipped with a black Yamaha grand piano, much newer and better constructed then the one we were forced to discard. 

A few weeks after moving in, I asked the community administrator if I could use the piano when there were no meetings or other events scheduled. She said, “Be our guest. We recently lost one of our residents who was a fine pianist, and no one has yet come forward to replace her.”

I explained that I wasn’t a professional, and that I’d only recently been educated on the instrument, but that I’d love the opportunity to play whenever possible.

Sara, after six months of therapy, had recovered dramatically. Though she relied on a walker, she was more mobile than most at Sunlit Gardens and encouraged me to play and would join me in “the great room,” as she called it, to listen as I practiced. 

“You truly are remarkable,” she’d say after almost  every session. “I can’t believe the improvements you’ve made in your playing this late in life.“

I had no reason to disagree, and gave 100% credit to Sara and the Voice for their perseverance.  Although I no longer needed the feedback of the Voice, I retained my subscription and the headset, just in case I experienced a setback. But it seemed that the Voice had found a way for me to pass around natural barriers I couldn’t have accomplished any other way.

Despite some arthritis in my back and knees, my hands were nimble, and I could play for hours at a time without much discomfort. It wasn’t long before the staff and residents began to show up in “the great room” and pull up chairs to listen. Sometimes, one or another would ask for a request, and if I didn’t have the song sheet, I’d find another piece in my folder by the same composer, or the same era, that would suit their tastes.

Over time, I learned to improvise enough to extend the length of a song and add more flourishes. It happened so gradually that I didn’t have to think about the new connections being made within my brain that allowed me to embellish a song and even  alter its rhythm.

Sara noticed my ability to improvise before I did. The next day, I dug out my VR headset and opened the app to ask the Voice for an explanation about my newly-found ability.

To illustrate my point, I picked up a book of Scott Joplin rags that Sara and I had found at a barn sale, and played one of his most noted tunes, “The Entertainer,” as it was written. When I got to the end of the song, without noticing it, I continued to play and strayed from the melody much like a jazz musician would do, maintaining the tempo, but adding and subtracting notes not on the page.

When I had finished playing, I asked the Voice how I had managed to accomplish such a feat, and it answered, “That was quite good and you’ve come further along than I expected.”

“But how did I do it?” I asked.

“At one time we spoke about ‘neuroplasticity’ and how the human brain is most malleable during childhood and adolescence.  I also told you that many people can retain the ability to change and adapt throughout life, because new neural connections can still form, and existing ones can be strengthened, even in older age. Without any training, and your unconventional learning patterns, you could only go so far on your own and plateaued early in young adulthood.

“By us working together, it seems that you were able to stimulate new areas of your brain, opening new pathways to music.“

“It seems magical.“

“Yes, but you’ve continued to develop using everything you’ve learned throughout your life, including a natural persistency to work hard to reach your goals.”

“But humans can’t do that, at my age!”

“Why not?“ answered the Voice. “The brain can continue to change and adapt through life, and your genetics, coupled with your desire to play, may have contributed to your breakthrough. If so, congratulations! But remember, there’s no guarantee that you’ll progress any further or even maintain your skills if the area of the brain that’s been positively affected is damaged or deteriorates.

“For now, enjoy your new-found talent, and be thankful for the gift.”

I removed the headgear and focused on the piano, and tried to recall a song that I wanted to play without having the music before me. And I just stared at my hands on the keyboard. I didn’t have my mother’s talent to play by ear, but I had gained the ability to do what most other people might never do.

I leafed through the Scott Joplin songbook, and settled on the “Palm Leaf Rag.” I flattened out the page on the rack, and followed the notes with my eyes as my fingers struck the keys a moment or so after my brain registered the notes. The exercises must have enabled me to speed up my fingering to nearly match my reading of the notes. I played faster to see just how quickly my fingers could catch up to my eyes and at one point it blurred, and I lost concentration. But then, as I slowed to a reasonable pace, I could hear the melody of the song, but also remembered those same notes later, and my fingers were able to blend them in with the notes written on the page.

With the book still on the rack, I played through various Joplin tunes, and was surprised at how fluid the playing was as I segued from one tune to the next, and then closed the book and continued playing. It wasn’t perfect, but it enabled me to accomplish a goal imagined at the age of 19 and realized 60 years later.

When I finished playing the “Palm Leaf Rag”, I closed the book, and heard applause from a small group of staff and residents standing in the rear of the auditorium. 

“You’re the guy I’ve been talking about,“ shouted a workingman with a cleaning cart and swiffer. “You’re here just about every day, but I miss you on occasion.

“You’re mighty good at that instrument, Sam. How long you been playing?

I found it interesting that he called me Sam, even though it wasn’t my name, and then I thought carefully about his question before answering.”

“It all depends on how you look at it,“ I said while stretching my back and getting up from the bench. “I’ve been attempting to play for just about 60 years, but then again, it might be that I haven’t yet fully learned how to play.”

--------------------------------------------------

In the days and weeks that followed, other members of the staff and residents would gather in the auditorium to hear me practice. Chairs were brought in to accommodate guests, and I had ceased coming down from our apartment dressed in old jeans, a t-shirt and slippers, and instead purchased a new sports jacket which I wore with a contrasting tie and pocket square. The management of the community published a schedule of my performances and restricted access by intruders during times when I was practicing. The community bulletin board posted my schedule and at times I added a theme that could span genres such as “The Songs of Sinatra,“ and “The Best of the Beatles,“ “Country Crossovers” and even “An Evening of Brahms, Beethoven and Bacharach.“

The management would schedule visits for those considering membership in the retirement community, and eventually reduced our living costs to reflect the value of my performances in attracting new residents. Sara was delighted with my success, in that it allowed her the freedom to enjoy other activities within the restrictions imposed on her by her stroke.

The Delco Daily Times, County Lines Magazine, and Main Line Today each had written stories about the artist and advertising man who had transitioned into becoming a piano sensation at the Sunlit Gardens retirement community, and I was asked by the management if I would consider holding paid evening concerts for non-residents as well as residents.

I must say that I enjoyed this period of my life more than any other. I made new friends, reconnected with people I’d lost contact with over the years, and although I didn’t have abilities comparable to those of my mother, I was able to chart my own course based on my limitations as well as my abilities.

Offers were made from outside the community for private concerts and events, but I was happy to perform within the confines of Sunlit Gardens, where I could walk to the auditorium only minutes after getting showered and dressed and be welcomed and appreciated by those who had heard my story and enjoyed the music I played.

--------------------------------------------------

By the age of 85, I reduced the number of performances on my schedule, and spent more time with my wife, who was ailing. I recognized a decline in my playing from the arthritis that affected my fingers and back. But I still enjoyed practicing and playing my favorite melodies on the stage with the doors locked from everyone except the workman who polished the floors while I played.

One day he was humming along as I played, and I paused to ask him why he called me “Sam”.

“You dat man. The pianist in the bar in dat old black and white movie.”

“Casablanca?” I asked.

“Dat’s the one. His name was Sam. Every time I come in here I think of him when you up der.”

I began to play “As Time Goes By” and the workman wagged his head. When I finished he said, “Yep, dat’s the song. Will you play it again for me...Sam. Just one more time?”

--------------------------------------------------