My life is no longer average

MLIA

[Untitled]

The coffee mug resting in the shag carpet contained only hot water. Mrs. Brokaw, my 96-year-old piano teacher, needed something hot to keep her awake during the half-hour lesson. Unfortunately, as I kept returning each week, the sips of hot water lost their potency and the only thing that could wake her from her naps was a resounding F instead of F-sharp. Mid-snore, she would perk up, shake her head, and correct me: "Ahem, F-sharp."

It'd been four years since I'd had a lesson and Mrs. Brokaw rarely appeared in my thoughts. Pulling out the short story, Dance of the Happy Shades by Alice Munro, my teacher and her quarterly recitals were tucked away in a remote corner of my subconscious. Yet here was a story about an aging piano teacher, Miss Marsalles. You could sense her purity from the first paragraph, her innocence making you feel like a sinner right from the get-go. I read on. The narrator, a young pupil, gave me the polite image of her mother graciously accepting Miss Marsalles’ invitation for a recital. Then the mom phones all the other mothers and gets in a snit over how miserable Miss Marsalles' recitals are. As backbiting as it was, I couldn't deny my empathy; my commiseration with Kaylee had expressed the same disgruntled obligation each time Mrs. Brokaw announced a recital. And the expressions of worry over Miss Marsalles age—well, those worries defined why I slammed the door to announce my entrance, addressed Mrs. Brokaw as I would a foreign exchange student, and said a prayer in the entryway that I wouldn't be the poor, unfortunate youngster to arrive on the scene of her death. As the recital began, even the treats paralleled those served at Mrs. Brokaw's recitals. Paragraph followed memory as I felt my past pulled forth, aligning itself with Munro's plot line.

I was back in the dim, 70's-style house on Prospect Street. Any moment now, the story would lead up to where I played my piece. As Munro's characters' clunked through notes and rhythms, I sat nervously fingering the air. Then my parallels fell short: The final player in Munro's story was not me, the eldest, and hence, most experienced. On the piano bench sat Miss Marsalles' newest student. Munro had primed me for this moment. Assiduously collecting my emotions, she thrust them back at me with her alterations. From where I'd witnessed peers produce music with depth and power, Munro brought me real, miraculous music from what had been an evening of childish performances. Her final performer, despite age and inexperience, illuminated the internal power that is music. The piece, “The Dance of the Happy Shades,” established itself in the room as a presence. I couldn't hear the notes but Munro told me they had strength and I felt it. Her words took me beyond expectation, capturing beauty in the experience. Her diction was illuminating, reworking my reality to form a piece of art.

My bottom isn't very tight.

I will never take toilet paper for granted again. 

Copycat

This has so been done before. We call it the Brent Brown revolution.