The Piano, Part 1

~ by Tessa Burns

I was her mother’s piano before she was even born. I stood at quiet attention for years, longing to be set free. As soon as she could walk, she passed by rubbing her grimy fingers along my legs. When she grew taller, her chubby little hands pounded my keys. I didn’t mind making the dissident clatter, that is how we first became friends.

The pummeling of my sparkling ivory was her way of getting to know me. I wished I could have given her a harmonic sound. In time, that would come, but still, we were communicating, learning each other’s language, and becoming comfortable. Her little fingers chopped at my keys as she expressed her heart to me. And isn’t that what a piano is for? To help its person walk through the seasons of life. To help them make sense of it when words won’t do.

When she turned three, she sat on my bench next to her older sister who was learning to play me. She watched as her sister skillfully set her hands in place and played one note at a time. And like most younger siblings, she copied her. With admiration she watched each finger create something beautiful, but her attempts often hit neighboring notes making a crash of chaotic noise. Some days frustration mounted, her face turned red and full-fisted pounding ensued. Turning from me she ran away, her seeming failure proclaimed with a slam of the door. I didn’t take it personally when she left me at those times. Despite her aggravation, I sensed she wanted to know me. After a brief sabbatical, she always returned to continue our conversation.

At seven years of age, my girl’s mother signed her up for music lessons. Her teacher was a local expert pianist who played with the city symphony. She was professional and methodical. Teaching began on her paper piano diagram. My girl grumbled her complaint to me and her mother. I had no say. She was not allowed to touch me until she learned the basics: middle C, the treble clef, and the bass clef. She was told she had to understand what an octave was, and how to hold her wrists up with fingers curled.

I became sacred, something that could not be touched haphazardly. When she was released to finally play my keys, her fingers struck a string of notes, making a recognizable, meaningful sound. Her freedom now had boundaries. Those boundaries developed the language we shared.

Her mother acquired me decades before with the intent to learn my language. She ran her fingers over my keys so gently that I didn’t make a sound. As a child, instead of the piano, her parents made her learn the accordion. A story she complained about to me on many occasions. She and her brother played together at local festivals and in parades. She played grudgingly, for her heart was for the piano. Raising children distracted her from pursuing me and the music we could create. Our relationship was never meant to be. So, she lived vicariously through her girls, making each learn to play me. All three had lessons and showed varying interest.

The older girl, probably the most gifted, perfected each piece. Being the oldest sometimes created a competitive look at life and the pursuit of perfection. The middle girl loved music, but the discipline of reading notes was not her forte. She got through most of her lessons playing by ear, but as the music became more complex, she lost interest in me pursuing her true passions.

I was okay with the competition of the oldest and the disinterest of the middle girl, but the little one… The little one was different. She wanted to know me. She needed a friend when others couldn’t or wouldn’t understand, and I earned the honor of becoming her friend.

C, D, E, F, G, A, B, C.

1, 2, 3, 1, 2, 3, 4, 5.

She practiced over and over again. The C scale, no sharps, no flats, no black keys. The right hand first, then the left. Scales climbed up and down ringing forth the recognizable progression. We were beginning to understand each other.

She learned about whole notes, half notes, the ever-popular quarter note, and beyond. The secret of counting time. She counted out loud, clapped her hands to a steady beat; and tapped her foot with vigor. She progressed to reading the melody “Mary Had a Little Lamb”. I thought it funny that before she began lessons, we played “Chop Sticks” with her sister and a little rendition where she rolled her fist up my black keys and back down again. She had great fun with those. But the lessons took that joy away.

Yes, she learned things she never knew like how to read music and follow the rules and the importance of practice. But she wanted and needed more, she longed for something greater from me. But the fear of failure came with those lessons. She wanted to please her teacher, and her parents, to show her older sisters she could keep up. But the fear that she couldn’t deliver, that she wasn’t enough increased. In the process of growing up sometimes, this happens. But to mature one must learn beyond where they are. It can be painful but when one pushes through long enough, they reach for joy again. My little girl wasn’t there yet, but I could see it on the horizon. How did I know, you may ask? Well, because she kept coming back.

Early on her professional piano teacher began to step away from teaching, so her mother looked for other options. She was always a proponent of her daughters’ music. The church pianist was giving lessons, and everyone agreed this was the best choice, including me.

She loved her teacher, but I was told she was strict. My girl was chastised for having long fingernails or not practicing enough. The truth was, she exercised her fingers over my keys all the time, just not always the weekly assignments given. Her practice included hymns, the newly popular Christian Rock, and how to improvise. My girl quickly learned to play with both hands at this point and we had fun playing Andrea Crouch, 2^nd Chapter of Acts, Amy Grant, and so many others that were often played on the record player that lived in the same room as me. She practiced singing along while her fingers danced on my keys. I sang in the background. She learned to ad-lib chords and basslines to melodies. I saw so much growth in my girl. She was coming alive.

She came to see me more frequently and practiced and played without being told. Yes, she gave time to the classics. Over time she complained less and less of her teacher’s reprimands. It became evident that she was spending more time with me.

She rushed through her scales, chords, and assigned songs like it was a race. Then she chose for herself what song to play. Her heart opened making way for a more purposeful, contemplative melody. With the official practice over it was our time. These were holy times, as she learned to pray with her fingers and her tears.

Oh, there was laughter, but the darkness she faced when she was away from me became evident when she sat down at my keys and poured out her heart. She needed healing, and I was given the gift of being the instrument to help bring solace, relief, and light. The weight of her burden fell heavy against my keys, and I soaked in as much pain as she offered.

I watched her cry. As she tried to sing, I heard her choke up unable to make a sound. The song blocked, stuck in her throat. She told me she thought she would drown but then release came, and composure returned. She ruffled through her songbooks and pulled out a happy song. We rejoiced together as she found a way to move on with her day, with her life, with a smile.

It was always such an honor to be allowed entrance into these secret places, sharing moments, being known, and knowing another. I savored these times; little did I know that the day would come when I would truly miss these intimate conversations.

To be continued…

How Tizzy Hanson Came to Be ~ by Tessa Burns

It was sometime in 1969 when the weather was particularly nice. The warm summer breeze created a perfect opportunity for families to play in the front yard of their well-manicured cookie-cutter homes. Children roller-skated down the sidewalks, and in my front yard, the ball was being tossed between my dad and sisters. I was 3 years old at the time, playing along as best I could while my mom was busy inside our middle-class suburban house. Like most youngsters with little bladders, I felt the need to rush inside to use the bathroom. And that is exactly where my dad thought I was, while my mom thought I was outside with the rest of the family. I must have felt adventuresome at the time, or hungry; not sure which, but visions of sugary treats danced in my head instilling an urgency to go to the local market a few blocks away.

My mom and I had walked to the grocery store many times to shop while the rest of the family was at work or school. I was familiar enough to move my little feet in the right direction to get there. And get there I did, walking past my distracted family playing in the yard. I turned down the street, hung a right, and continued a few blocks until I reached the black asphalt lot. I crossed the painted striped parking spaces and entered through the automatic door. The shiny glass opened like magic to . . . food heaven!

I grabbed a cart, threw my stuffed clown with the orange and pink polka dots in the seat, and began my shopping adventure. Each necessary item I longed for found its way in the cart: cookies, crackers, and other scrumptious toddler delicacies. What I remember… the best, most wonderful treat of all. . . the rainbow-colored marshmallows! I still remember hunting for them, finding the prized goodness, and throwing the squishy bag in the basket. Like my mom, when I was satisfied the list was complete, I pushed the cart into the checkout line.

The cashier noticed me and my cart waiting behind the woman ahead of me.

“Is she with you?” she asked.

I was told she said no and walked out. The cashier was unsure what to do with a toddler, standing there with no connected adult. Right about this time the woman that had been in the line in front of me returned. She had become concerned and thought she might try to help. She took me, without my stuffed clown or any of the desirable items in my cart and asked me if I knew where I lived.

Of course, I did. I had found my way to the market from home, hadn’t I?

She drove me down the street and turned left into the row of homes like the streets before and after. We drove down about as far as I thought seemed right, got out, and went up to the door of the house that looked like mine.

            Knock.

                        Knock.

                                    Knock.

“Does this little girl live here?” she asked.

They said no, but the woman had to go, and they took me in.

Meanwhile back home, a few streets up:

Mom went to call the family in for dinner. I wasn’t in the returning party. Dad said I came in to use the bathroom. Mom said I went back out. Dad said he didn’t see me come out.

“What?”

I was missing. My sisters ran up and down the street checking with neighbors to see if I came by to visit. No one had seen me. The police were called. A search party ensued. Mom and Dad knocked on doors throughout the neighborhood. A parade of children on bicycles, tricycles, and roller skates made their way up and down streets hoping to see a little blue-eyed brunette toddling up the road. No such luck.

My parents were in a panic, my sisters were in a panic. I was. . . not panicked. But then I knew where I was. I was with a perfectly nice family.

A knock.

                 Knock.

                               Knock, sounded at the door of the house where I sat perfectly content.

My mom came rushing in to see me sitting in a nice man’s lap eating cookies. His family gathered around the TV with rabbit-ears. My mom rushed to hold me and thanked them for finding me.

The man stopped my mom before she could leave, “Ma’am, is your little girl’s name really Tizzy Hanson?”

I can guess that my articulation was not up to par since my given name is not Tizzy Hanson. Although for the last several decades I will respond when my family calls me by that name. I suppose the man thought Tessa sounded like Tizzy. And I am guessing that at the time I was obsessed with my family name and the story of it originally being Johansson. It was changed generations ago when coming to the United States from Sweden, but that is another story.

Tizzy Hanson is my brave alter-ego. She is adventuresome and can push me out the door when I need a little extra kick in the caboose. I am grateful she was returned home safely and gave me a funny story to tell. Thankfully, it is a story of how a community worked together to get a little girl to the safety of her parents and home… to the place she belonged.

And that is how Tizzy Hanson came to be.

Disclaimer: The preceding story is for entertainment purposes only and children are not encouraged to replicate this story in any way.