Canine Choir Practice
Chapter 7
I was four years old when we moved to 113 S.E. 57th in 1970. We also began attending a new church, South Lindsay Baptist. The new house and the new church are where my earliest family memories live.
It was the age when a child is just beginning to form lasting memories. I was crazy about Barbie, Silly Putty, Slinkys, and Clackers, and toy commercials filled the cartoons that aired only on Saturday mornings.
I also loved candy, and my mom allowed me to walk with Mark to the corner store called Tiny Tim. As we walked, we would tiptoe along the sidewalk singing “Tiptoe Through the Tulips” in Tiny Tim’s quivering voice, convinced the song belonged to our neighborhood store. Once inside, I loaded up on bubble gum and my favorite treat of all—Astro Pops, the cone-shaped lollipops that seemed to last forever.
Our new house had two stories. I had my own bedroom, and my brothers—Mark and my older brother Jody—shared a room. Our mother carefully redecorated the house in jewel tones, popular at the time, and carpeted the downstairs with squishy sculptured shag in brown and gold. Walking on it felt like stepping on a marshmallow. The larger house gave us a perfect wall for the piano, with space for a side table and a lamp.
Mark’s fingers danced across the piano keys in a way that didn’t match his rowdy boyhood look. Picture a boy playing in a creek, a frog tucked in his pocket, barefoot and carefree—and then imagine those same muddy hands gliding across ivory keys. At nine years old, he didn’t ask for piano lessons, but Mom must have seen something in him. She found a seasoned instructor from church who agreed to teach him.
He yelled, “Git!” at me when I rolled around on the floor during his lesson. His playing interested me, and I hoped he would learn my favorite song—“How Much Is That Doggie in the Window?” Mom had grown tired of playing the song for me, but I never tired of barking my part. My barking eventually translated into me wanting piano lessons.
And, since the piano teacher was already there for my brother, Mom insisted she teach me too. I immediately caught the side-eye from the instructor and gathered that lessons would not work out for me. At four years old, I preferred barking to learning. The teacher clapped out 3/4 time, and I barked it right back at her. After my first lesson devolved into what can only be described as canine choir practice, the teacher suggested we pause until I started school.
Mark was hungry to play. Even after the lessons ended, he kept reaching toward music. The investment in him stopped, but his interest never did. Eventually, he had to sneak practice because Dad liked the house quiet after dinner.
You learn a lot about someone sitting under a piano while they play. From beneath the keyboard, I watched his feet mash the pedals while his elbows led his fingers over the keys. Even though I could not play myself, it felt as if I were playing along with him because I could feel his rhythm and timing through the vibrations of the piano.
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