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He was old then. Eighty-six. And a perfectionist.
He had a poster of Uncle Sam. I want YOU to practice EVERY DAY.
I’d just finished kindergarten.
I’d been begging my mom for piano lessons since I was three.
After the first lesson I wanted to quit. She wouldn’t let me.
It ended eleven years later.
He had me play the same piece. Over and over. The whole hour.
He’d had a stroke.
I was free.
He died two months later.
In between I got to be a decent pianist.
I had a good ear.
Never developed the ability to sight-read, though.
I forgot most of what I learned.
I’ve barely played in the last twenty years.
I should pick it up again.