Solfeggietto by WTH Bach . . .

Older Daughter had a piano concert two weekends ago.  Each student–in order from newest to most accomplished–played a regular piece and a Halloween-themed piece, which made for a fairly long time for those who had already played, and their younger siblings.*

Near the end of the concert–while I was trying to keep Baby from singing her newly-learned ABC lyrics at the top of her lungs and keep Older Daughter from asking every two second how many songs were left–an accomplished young lady sat down and played something I recognized.

It was a spooked-up arrangement, but the base piece was something I’d played, and loved,  in high school.  In fact, it was my party piece, the one I’d memorized and played at every opportunity, until time and neglect had erased almost everything but the first eight measures. 

I’d always wanted to get the music for it again, but I’d forgotten the title and the composer, so over the years I would occasionally play my four measures, or hum them, for various people who might know.  But though many thought it sounded familiar, they couldn’t help.  So I finally let it go.

And here it was–sort of! 

After the final bow, I leapt for the piano teacher and said, “What is the original piece to the arrangement that so and so played?  I’ve been looking for that for a long time!”

“Oh, that’s the Solfeggietto by one of the Bachs.**  I have it at home, if you want to make a copy.”

Did I!   I accepted immediately and told her I’d played it at my last high school recital, memorized it, etc.

“Oh,” she said.  “Would you like to play it for the spring concert?”

She was obviously joking.  It’s been about twenty years since I actually played the piano, and about 16 since I played anything in the treble clef . . . Maybe I should take a couple of lessons first, I said, grinning.

“Well, I don’t usually teach adults–they don’t practice.  Would you practice?” 

She nailed me with a look, this women who was an estimated fifteen years younger than I, and I was suddenly twelve again.  Music is supposed to keep one young, but this was taking things too far.

“Um, I think I could find the time, but I wasn’t really–”

“Tell you what.  I’ll send the piece home with your daughter, you copy it and start practicing, and we’ll get together in a few months to see how you’re doing.  It would be fun to have a parent playing at one of these!”  She smiled at me and turned to the next parent.

I wandered away, wondering what the hell had just happened. 

The music arrived a few days later.  It isn’t the exact arrangement I knew–there appear to be many, many more notes.  And a couple more flats and a few unexpected sharps.  All spaced for someone with a wider handspan and faster fingers–my muscle memory is sluggish, now, and the notes on the page have to pass through my brain, poor things, on the way to the keys.

But those first eight measures are exactly how I remember them, and they flow.  That gives me hope.  Plus, they repeat throughout, so that’s, what, half the piece down already?  And I did manage to pick the rest out without too much confusion. . . though some of the notes above the treble clef are still a matter of guesswork.

So if the teacher really wasn’t joking, I might actually get up there, at my age, and play my party piece at the spring concert.  And regardless, Older Daughter is getting a charge out of reminding me to practice and handing me a pencil to circle the wrong notes. 

I suppose it’s good to try new things, or things so old they seem new again.   I’ve learned to hula-hoop and returned to the swimming pool this past year–why not try a piano recital?

Of course, playing the piano has nothing to do with my size or appearance, but my ability and perseverance.  Can’t blame the fat if I can’t pull this off.  But then again, getting up in front of people–being the sole focus of attention, if only for a couple minutes . . . that brings up a few issues for me.  Less than there were before I walked out of the locker room in my swimming suit, or made myself an extra, extra-large hula hoop, but still. . .

We’ll see . . .

—

*But, as one of the other parents said during the reception, there may be some wrong notes, but at least there aren’t any tuning  problems.

**I love how she said this–one of the Bachs.  Because there are actually a remarkable number of them.  There must have been Bachs who were grocers or laborers, or whatever, but I’m suspect they all composed, or at least arranged, in their spare time.

Tags: anxiety, music, size-acceptance