Teaching Piano Lessons

The following article appeared in a newspaper but I don’t know WHICH newspaper.  Apparently, I clipped off the date info.

Parents, it’s okay to push your little piano student, but not off the bench

By Taprina K. Millburn

The whining and excuses begin as soon as I call my son into the living room.

He sits, begins to wiggle and explains that he has a rash on his arm.  No wonder, it’s time for piano practice.

He pecks on middle C and turns to me and tells me about a kid at school who stuffed toilet paper up his nose.

“Let’s talk about that after we practice,” I say.

Curl your fingers like spiders, I tell him and demonstrate to him how his teacher wants his fingers placed on the keys.

“I don’t like spiders,” he tells me.

Then he begins to scratch his invisible rash.

“I need to go to the bathroom; I’ll be right back,” he says as he hurries off.

His teacher tells me that my son, as a kindergartner, should only practice for five minutes a day.

It’s the longest five minutes of my life.

When he returns, I help place his fingers on the keys and listen to him ping out “Cowboy Joe.”  Wonderful, I tell him.

Four more minutes.

“Am I finished, yet?” he asks. “Because I really have to pee again.”

He stomps on the damper pedals and forgets where to begin, although I’ve pointed to middle C at least a hundred times.

My patience is slipping away.  How I wish it weren’t true, but as my son squirms and slides his bottom from side to side on the wooden piano bench, pretending to ride a wild horse, I feel my good humor being siphoned out.

He continues to look for other things to say or do – anything but playing his assignment.

That’s when I use my foghorn voice and his whining turns into real tears.

“It’s more fun playing for my piano teacher.  You’re grumpy,” he says to me and sits on his hands in protest.

If you rode her piano bench she’d be irritated, too, I want to say but I hold my words.

Three more minutes.

I turn the page of his book to the next piece and he reluctantly plays the notes.

Then I wonder if I’ve turned into one of THOSE parents.  The kind who pushes their kids too much – to be the best ball players, musicians, cheerleaders, or beauty queens.

The kind of parent whose children grow up to write tell-all books about them.

“I like this song,” he says and continues to play it three more times.  He’s forgotten about his rash or that he needs another bathroom break.

One more minute.

We flip the page and the wiggling and scratching begin again, but he plays the song and smiles.

“I’m finished, right?”

Practice is over, and he packs up his books.

“How long did I practice?”

“Five minutes”

“It felt like hours,” he said with a sigh.

DAYS.

You can get in touch with Taprina by mail at King Features Weekly Service, 628 Virginia Drive, Orlando, FL  32803 or by email to letters.kfs@hearstc.com.

Wild Horses

Sometimes, across this land of silver grasses,

There comes a sound upon the listening air,

As if, along the old dim trails and passes,

Horses were there.

Galloping swiftly, riderless, unbidden,

Their smoky manes a blur against the light,

Wild horses that have never yet been ridden,

Lunging in fright

Before some scent or sound, some windward gleaning

Of distant threat, their arching necks held high,

Their ears alert to catch the inner meaning

Of step or cry …

Almost I see them down the windy weather,

Their satin muscles rippling as they run,

Wild horses that have never known a tether,

Mates to the sun.

Mates to the lightning and the crashing thunder,

The black winged night, the white on rushing dawn –

Wild Horses – Ah, the beauty and the wonder

Of things long gone!

Wild Child

By:  Shelby G. Bush to his 3^rd child, daughter Dana

Now I take my pen up to write

This daughter of mine, “Dana”, who seems to be gone almost every night

Now I can’t remember what she looks like

I’ve tried to get her to come see me with all my might

She could be fat or maybe still slim

I don’t know, because she’s always gone with a him.

Still I’ll be hoping someday soon

She’ll come and help me go run a coon

Or maybe she’ll take time to give me a call

This daughter of mine who’s no telling how tall

Oh well I guess I’ll just have to understand

How at her age she’s always chasing a man.

To My Red Haired Hussy

By my dad – Shelby G. Bush to his 2^nd wife

Now I take up my pen to write

Something other than my usual gripe

To the most special person in my life

And that is non other than my wife.

A note in which to say

How much I appreciate her every day

All the little things she does for me

Really does open my eyes to see

And now I continue on

About the last couple years gone

How she must have really cared for this man

And how I plan to return that caring, if I can.

Now as more days come to pass

I do not plan on her to hear my sass

But instead if I use my head

Before one of us is dead

To make a joy of each day

And let actions speak instead of what I might say.