I think of childhood; piano lessons come to mind. That proverbial hour of the week, when little legs would dangle from a black bench and a skirted woman with time-appointed wisdom would instruct the curve of fingers, is what I thought of today – for it is the proverbial hour that I never experienced.
Not that I ever had any desire to learn the piano, or any instrument for that matter. My parents – both as musical as rock without a stick to tap it – would have generously provided for any musical whim, as they often felt that they should have learned to play music when they were young. But I was a stubborn and shy thing. When the subject of learning an instrument was brought up, I never envisioned the freedom of jubilant, artistic expression, but the chains wrought from my fear of failure.
Thank goodness that's over! I thought of all of this today, because this was the day of my first music lesson. Not piano, though. Guitar.
I'm taking lessons at the Alcott Arts Center, along with my brother, Noah. The instructor is Fast Johnny Ricker himself. Locally, Johnny is a famous blues musician. He's the sort of guy that, if you wear one of his t-shirts, you're likely to get a comment. More importantly, to me, I've known Johnny for over ten years. His oldest son is my best friend. And Johnny's amazing in about every single way. I suppose that I could have learned guitar from him at any time in my life. At least I'm doing it now.
For those of you tweens who play an instrument, I applaud you. You are experiencing what I had always envisioned as a normal childhood. For those of you tweens who do not play an instrument, I applaud you, too. There is always time to start, and there's never any pressure.
Thank you for reading.
Zachary W.
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