When we bought the piano, we were thinking of fun. Bill plunking out the notes of the countless tunes he carries around in his head. Barb reclaiming the skills of her nine or so years as a piano student in her youth. Perhaps a social gathering with a guest virtuoso, or simply a bunch of friends singing together with the boost of liberal libations.

With the exception of “Bill plunking,” none of the above has actually occurred. The beautiful piano suffers from loneliness, which the tuner advises us is detrimental to its well-being.

What happened? Well, like everything, it’s complicated. In my case, it has something to do, I’m afraid, with my mother. This is psychological territory I’m loathe to explore, let alone try to explain in writing.

The truth is, now in my 70s, when I sit down at the piano I’m immediately ten or eleven years old again. It is five o’clock in the morning, no matter what time I happen to be playing. My mother is upstairs in her bed, listening to every wrong note, every lame repetition. Her hopes hanging up there in the darkness overshadow my lonely hour at the keyboard just as they always did. “Practicing” the piano, I realize, is not the same as playing the piano for fun. In my youth, I never played the piano for fun.

With the new piano, I signed up for a few lessons with a recommended teacher. She seemed pleased to have an adult student who liked classical music. I’d already mastered (at least at one time) the basics of the keyboard. I was enthusiastic. The teacher launched me into some helpful practice techniques. I bought some books of music I played in my early years. Then I went off on my own. But how many times could I play the Moonlight Sonata or Für Elise before I felt stuck? When would I be able to launch myself into spontaneous renditions of popular tunes? I enjoyed sight-reading from the stack of hymnals I owned, bringing to mind times as the accompanist for youth group and the good feelings of a lifetime of worship. When would I start having fun?

Enthusiasm flagged. Skills remained rudimentary. The piano fell mostly silent. Frankly, it was embarrassing to play so little and so badly. Whenever I sat down at the piano, I somehow felt my mother’s disappointment looming over my shoulder.

I have no memory of family fun around the piano–mother and father and daughters (three) singing together, popular tunes or church music. I never heard my mother play the piano for pleasure, although I believe she did play. Is that what she did during that lacuna in time when the children are in school—that time when, as far as I was concerned, my mother didn’t exist?

My mother was extremely proud of the accomplishments of her daughters, in academia and in music, too. She made sure we had the best teachers. She enforced the discipline of practice: one hour before school for the two older girls, half-hour for the youngest. Before school: hence my lifelong propensity to wake up at 5 am. This was good for learning skills, but hardly a recipe for fun. Then there were the recitals: the looming threat against which all practice was aimed.

I’m beginning to understand the difficulty of picking up the piano again this far down the road.

Recently, my older sister reminded me of the hilarious energy with which we used to play Schubert’s Marche Militaire, a peppy duet. I threw down a challenge. She accepted. Thus, with a deadline of the 4th of July, I’m practicing for the Duet Redux. I’ve found that having a goal has boosted my application to practice. It’s beginning to feel like fun. A little. It’s frustrating, with fingers tangling and mysterious notes occupying perches on the clef I don’t even recognize. I’ve scribbled a lot of notes on the score. I try to practice every day. But as the little motto stuck on my refrigerator quips: Always Make New Mistakes. I always do.

Perhaps this goal-setting, this not taking things too seriously, this aiming for fun with my sister(s) will help me bring the piano to life. Meanwhile, Schubert and my mother may be rolling over in their…well, you know.

Here’s a poem published in The Lyric in 1982. Clearly I’ve been engaged with the conundrum of the piano for a long time.

The Metronome

How she complains against the metronome
let loose to discipline her clever hands.
It changes, she insists, when accents roam
awkwardly from the measure it demands,
while she, hurrying over the notes she knows,
or gingerly laggard at the tricky part,
asserts her independence as she goes
after the heedless rhythms of her heart.
This tension teaches how my will may go
stubborn and reckless while the beat is clear,
halting or quick, precipitate or slow,
despite instruction clicking in my ear,
until at last my little tune is done
and time unmeasured makes all tempos one.