Let’s celebrate the music of our lives

From an earlier column, you may have realized that I was raised, among other things, with music around me, the utmost being my mother’s singing. In addition to that, and this was a staple in my young life, was a piano. I have no idea where this musical instrument came from, in that we were poor. I surmised that we may have inherited it from an aunt who no longer had space for it in her abode. In any case, it was my mother’s wish, desire, want and command that I learn to play the piano, and play it well. Unknown to me, we had started with a toy piano when I was about 4 years old, and she had taught me the scale in C, followed at some point by “Jingle Bells” and/or “Three Blind Mice.” I suspect there were some other songs she had added to my early musical repertoire, so that by 9 years of age I was ready for real sheet music (from Sam Ash, no less) and this piano of unknown origin.

My mother was a woman of strength, despite several medical issues, and a dual parent in every sense and aspect. She had determined many goals for her son, one of which was to master the piano. With this determined direction behind me, daily practice for at least two hours became the rule of the day. By 13 years of age, I had advanced to one of Chopin’s Etudes, without the traditional weekly music teacher. At this point, the rubber was about to hit the road.

I had been awarded an academic four-year scholarship to a prestigious high school in Manhattan. Success at this institution required in the neighborhood of three or four hours of home study per evening, thus making daily piano practice impossible. That was the reality of the situation; however, relaying same to my mother was a horse of a different color, so to speak. I was about to have my first lesson in hard-core negotiations with a tough opponent. There was only one way to approach this challenge – come forth and be direct. A very dangerous strategy, but the only one available to me at the time. “Mother,” I said, “if I am made to continue with the piano, I shall not be successful at my new school, and be probably expelled for academic reasons.” Peter had won his first of what were to be many future sessions on an opposing side of a negotiations table. The downside – no more piano; I have not played since, although I do own an electric keyboard gifted to me by my daughter.

To return briefly to my childhood and music, every Saturday morning in the midst of my mandated chores, I listened to a disc jockey named Martin Block who counted down the top 40 songs of the week. I kept my own log of those hits (yes, including “How Much Is That Doggie in the Window?”), fun for a kid without a television or telephone or a room of his own. There was only the one Emerson Radio in the apartment, but there were always sounds of some kind emitted through this device which had been Scotch-taped a few times due to a clumsy son.

On Sunday evening there were Jack Benny, Amos and Andy, and a radio drama called “Johnny Dollar” about an insurance investigator. There was no radio permitted, as I recall, Monday through Friday evenings. That time was reserved for homework, and for washing and drying the dishes. And yes, of course, there was practicing the piano after school prior to dinner.

Music permeated my life then as it does now, and I am so thankful for that, as I hope you readers are too who love and appreciate all forms of music. There is something about those notes and chords which directly stimulate the proverbial heartstrings of a human being. Those vibrations direct us to the local venues which provide music, and even to Ticketmaster, which sometimes disappoints us. Whether music was part of your childhood, or you picked up a liking for it along your life’s journey, let us join hands in a circle, and sing and dance in celebration of one another and the music which all can share.