Friday, June 29, 2012
So, two weeks ago my dad, brother and husband moved the big, old piano from my parents house to my house. We had to do a lot of re-arranging, but our living room, although a little more full, looks great with the piano, and I've had fun playing almost every night after work. The room has become quite dark and traditional looking. I've put up some old, stained prints of the war of 1812 that I got from my grandmothers house. They are gory and macabre, but I always loved them. The painting on top of the piano is one that Dan's mom painted, and I absolutely love the winter scene. The piano became the perfect home for Dan's 1920's Remington Portable Typewriter, which we got from his grandmothers. The room is full of auction finds and hand me downs - the only new piece of furniture is our couch... a floor model from Sears. I love a house full of old junk.
Anyway, my fingers are not nearly as limber as they were at 15 years old, but I'm picking it up again. I'm not sure how much my neighbours will enjoy hearing me play the same few bars over and over and over again until I perfect it, but hey, at least I'm not practising my vocal exercises!
I was extremely fortunate to have an amazing music teacher in the "village" where I grew up. I grew up in a very small area - we had a general store and a gas station, and there were about 500 people in the village itself, and lots of cottage folk. Needless to say, there was not a whole lot going on. My parents started me in piano lessons pretty young, and I took my first exam through the Royal Conservatory at 8 years old! After that I studied guitar, voice, and played around with a violin (which I could never make work right!).
When I was a teenager, practising piano for an hour each night wasn't always fun. Scales were so boring, I hated music theory, but now as an adult I am so incredibly grateful for it. It's awesome being able to lose yourself in a song. Almost as good as losing yourself in a really beautiful ruffle or pintuck...