Mother felt that I was a remarkably physical child, shortly after birth. She recalls that I slept fewer hours than one would have expected of an infant; therefore, she was concerned with my ongoing “wakefulness”. In the past, she wrote me a memo about my behavior as an infant; when I was snuggled in an she had placed on the kitchen counter for my feeding or, to have me near her as she went about kitchen tasks, I would watch her attentively, as she moved around the premises. As she was preparing my mushy cereal or mashed banana, she felt that I followed her soothing tones. As she intended to increase her expectations of me, she noticed that I would shake my legs in rapid excitement, as the moments to my small meal passed.

When I was old enough to sit in a highchair, Mother wondered about my ranging arm movements inevitably brushing cups and plates and pieces of food off the tray, onto the floor. Finally, she laid a tarp under my highchair, extending some feet around the base to catch the spilled milk and cereal splattered below. At that time, she did not then understand the implications of the word “neurological” nor were physicians insightful or cognizant of “physicality” like this being perhaps indicative of perhaps a neurological problem. After the fact, she would look back and link together so many signs of my earliest days with all that came later in my life.

Throughout her childhood, Mother had felt deprived in not having the vital joy of playing a musical instrument. When I was an adult, she would tell me that she sat obediently, while her friend Ethel, dutifully practiced piano before Ethel could play on the patio with her. To my Mother, as a growing child, the piano was majestic and mysterious, with its broad array of black and white, tenor and base keys, like the elements of an emotional puzzle made more fascinating by watching the felted hammers bouncing on the strings when the cabinet was open.

Mother longed to be able to put the elements of this puzzle together, resulting in beautiful sounds. While in her youth, her parents had rented a house from a retired dentist and, quite affluent in her eyes, there was a dilapidated piano left in the summer kitchen. It had ivory keys that were split and yellowed with ebonies turning brown from lack of care. Quite a few of the keys did not play at all and, Mother mourned its uselessness in the cold room behind the kitchen, with her parents not having the means to repair it. In a local Manhattan community center, there was a piano on which she could practice, if she took lessons there for 25 cents but, her family could not afford such a luxury, especially one that was dedicated to her sole indulgence. Her father was intermittently confined to bed because of his tuberculosis and, he worked sporadically. When he did work, it was a ten-hour day and Sundays as well, for wages that barely paid and, she felt as though she was asking for the forbidden.

Later in her years, my Mother felt the necessity to have music in her life. When my Brother turned four, Yamaha introduced their program of teaching toddlers how to play a keyboard and read music. Mother enrolled Jesse in the Yamaha class and (of course) dragged me to the lessons, intending to start me with those teachings, when I reached that age.

Jesse squirmed and wiggled but was not unmanageable. Two years later, when I was four, I too began taking Yamaha lessons, using an electronic keyboards in the classroom. Yamaha offered for sale similar keyboards for $100 but Mother could not reconcile her yearning for a real piano with such a “compromised” instrument. She searched for pianos in the classified ads, but dedication to her childhood longings made getting a simple functioning upright or spinet out of the question. Only a grand piano would fill the large vacancy left over from her upbringing, even though my father’s income and our lack of savings hardly made that desire realistic.

My Brother and I had each completed two years of musical instruction at Yamaha however, unfortunately, the family still did not have a piano. Mother combed the classified ads daily, hoping for distress sales or people making changes in their lives, while I was preoccupied with homework and sports.

When the economy took a downturn three years later, a Yamaha piano store in the next county advertised it was selling its inventory at half-price. Being possessed with anticipation, Mother drove there to see the instruments that were left. There was obviously little to see, other than to finest pianos and, Mother found the courage to buy a seven foot four inch studio-sized Yamaha Grande Piano (laden with real ivory keys) that was used, but mint condition. It was new on the showroom floor and, among the last pianos to be shipped. Mother’s rationale in buying it was that its price was so low, she could sell it if necessary, without a dollar lost.

It was delivered into the empty spacious living room, that had a vaulted planked ceiling, allowing the waves of sound to reverberate into our residence in a Lucas Valley court. The acoustics that resonated from this beautiful black instrument rivaled the reverberating tones that emanating from our quality JBL speakers, that had exquisite tweeters and ten inch woofers.

This piano was Mother’s cherished possession and, her childhood fulfillment. She had carefully selected the particular one in the store that seemed to her to have the most shimmering high registers and sonorous low tones. Mom felt that my Brother and I would definitely revel in the articulate beauty of the sounds they could create.

There was one other piano teacher in our neighborhood and, Mother began taking the boys for lessons with her. After a brief period, Mother felt that her teachings were perfunctory; it was obvious that the instructor was not really dedicated to the music or the children therefore, she called the Director of Music of a private school in Marin that was recognized for its music program and, asked for a referral to a piano teacher. She informed my Mother of Mr. Dmitri Mihailoff, a kind elderly heavy-set senior that lived in a different part of the county, but well-noted for his talented teachings. It was with Dmitri that Jesse and I really began respectable piano lessons and, with whom we remained with for the two years; it was a fortuitous happy discovery.

Except for the Russian name, one would not have surmised that Dmitri would be anything but an open, joyful, enthusiastic westerner of an earlier California. He was a tall, full bodied, heavy-set senior, with an ample head of white hair framing a broad face, with shining pink complexion. He gave lessons in the lower level studio of his redwood home, which was tucked away at the end of long driveway in a small cul-de-sac off a busy boulevard. The studio was crammed with music scores piled everywhere and a sofa (beside the piano) where we sat and expectantly listened; I began trying to take lessons and, learned how to play piano with my Brother. They were nominally a half hour each but invariably Dmitri immersed himself in the moment and no lesson was ever shorter than three quarters of an hour, sometimes a full hour with my Brother and I. Mother didn’t know if Dmitri perceived something remarkable in the our performances of their exercises. More likely, he was responding to the results of his own passionate dedication and meticulous instruction. It was more likely a combination of all this and the forceful regimen Mother imposed on her two children, Jesse and I.

Mother felt at though she did make it worth Dmitri’s time and, Jesse and I attended private schools, quite far away from home to which we had to be driven. No doubt some child psychologists will shudder at the revelation she required; for three years, Jesse and I were to practice for 30 minutes each morning before going to school and 30 minutes each in the afternoon when we came home. Mother doesn’t recall having difficulty persuading us to fulfill this requirement, nor angry refusals or rebellions. Maybe she was just blocking out the negatives, while they just caved under her iron will. Or, perhaps the warm experience with Dmitri, in conjunction with the rapid progress we had made, accompanying her involvement with us, had all served to give enough satisfaction to her, forestalling our rebellion. Dmitri was delighted with how my fingers flew over the keys, how readily I had absorbed the techniques and, had stated that my “lightening fingers” reflected “lightening brains”. Mother had not known what to expect, being amazed and gratified. And, relative to the time spent practicing, I gained talent for moving for moving to a rhythm or beat.

Even though Mom did not recall difficulties in making Jesse and I abide by their practice schedule, she did tell me that she had a vivid imprint in her memory of me at the piano. She told me that I was “physical” to a degree that perplexed her, in that I was “squirmy” compared to Jesse. When at our piano, Jesse sat on a concert bench and engaged in acrobatics and writhing gymnastics while he fingered the keys. As she looked-on from the kitchen, Jesse would be bent backwards while sitting on the bench, with his head hanging down over the back of the bench, while he looking up at the ceiling. His lithe and sinewy body extended horizontally so far back that his hands barely reached the keys. While maintaining a horizontal “float” on the bench by gripping the bench underneath with bent legs (strong from swimming and soccer) he was not yet tall enough to reach the foot pedals. In this contorted posture, he would race over the keys and complete the pieces with perfect fidelity, if not with intelligent understanding, but he was barely eight years old.

Not more than six or eight months after starting lessons, Dmitri held the annual recital in his home for all of his students. His wife was a quiet gentle woman and extended gracious hospitality to all parents and guests come to bask in the accomplishments of their children. Mother had no idea what to expect but clearly the intensive work reaped wonderful results. Other parents and guests had approached her and congratulated her on our impressive performances. Dmitri himself intimated to me that their performances that afternoon were outstanding and, a few months later he submitted their names for participation in the county music teachers’ annual recital featuring their best students. Here too, the reception gave my Mother and overwhelming feeling. Guests and teachers approached her, with congratulations regarding the virtuosity of her “singularly talented” children. Parents “ooh” and “ahhed” envy, while Dmitri beamed with pride.

Jesse was to have his “Bar Mitzvah” in one year and he was not able to attend religious school, so Mother searched for tutors. He needed two: one tutor for basic Hebrew reading and writing and a second one for preparing to chant the Torah portion with its traditional inflection and rhythm. There was not time enough in one day to fit in all the traveling to and from the lessons, accompanying practice, review, homework from school and an opportunity to play or be outdoors with other kids who, in our neighborhood, went to the local school. So Mother offered a respite to both boys (there had to be parity) from piano lessons (for the time being) but they would practice one half hour during the day instead of a full hour with lessons, resuming immediately after Jesse’s Bar Mitzvah.

Piano practice however, had devolved into a routine spinning off of the previously mastered pieces and, arguments began to insinuate themselves among other complaints. The uproar increased in volume and, Mother had difficulty maintaining the peace. Jesse and I promised to continue piano practice when Jesse’s Bar Mitzvah was over, then resume lessons with Dmitri. At that time, Mom had sensed “the fine thread” was breaking and, she steeled herself for disappointment. Gradually, during that year, reality prevailed and the disappointment transformed itself into a sad reconciliation, bringing her to face her fantasies, which were being peeled away from the emerging personalities and impulses of Jesse and I.

Soon after the Bar Mitzvah had passed, Jesse and I protested vehemently at the suggestion of their resuming piano lessons. Mother wondered if we would consent to experimenting with other instruments and, Jesse expressed interest in playing guitar. After a few lessons, we hastily purchased guitar and, shortly thereafter, he had realized that it was of sincere interest. Mom had felt disappointed that I could not even be seduced with drums.

Being mortified, Mom called Dmitri to tell him that Jesse and I had refused to continue. The “contract” had really been between with Dmitri, with Jesse and Toby only proxies for her own commitment, a substitution for which they were not responsible. She had only a few words with which to express her sense of guilt and shame for what she felt was a deception on her part. She felt that Dmitri had given so much to her, through his lessons for Jesse and myself. At the time, she had felt that his reaction over the phone was cool, restrained and terse; she could imagine his face reddening with the pressure of heightened emotion, likely disappointment and perhaps anger. The conflict within he rose then, decades later, Mom felt that the situation was like the embarrassment of a love affair broken off suddenly by one lover, perceived by the other as seemingly without cause or expectation.

Thereafter, piano stood majestically in the living room, unused for years that followed, until Mom sold it for its own sake, since a living instrument must be played to sustain its vibrancy. It did indeed sell for the dollar amount she had paid for it some six years earlier being that its ivory keys were by then a rarity.

by Toby Daniels