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Fighting less would've meant playing better.

BY L2L3 on December 10, 2012
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I hated piano lessons. There are no fond memories, except for the intricate ways in which I would distract my mom until twenty after the hour of my scheduled lesson time. By then I was safe. Too late to head out. My piano
teacher, teacher #2, was a snob. Teacher #1 was a
lovely little old lady but passed away during my second
year of lessons. Mrs. Feurstein, with her Aqua-netted,
white-blond beehive, was, unfortunately, much younger and healthier. I was forced to be Bo-Peep, Lady of Spain and one of the VonTrapp daughters, all in the name of
themed piano recitals. Yes, there are photos. I never
played particularly well but years after the last lesson,
began to enjoy playing a bit. I haven't played in over two
years and yeah, I walk within a foot of a lovely antique
upright a few times a day. This line of thought went
through my mind after reading a couple of memoirs about carols, especially ct's. I can recall the words to probably 100+ carols, domestic and foreign. How? I asked myself that. I think the clincher is that I learned to play them all on the piano, some on my own and some under threat of physical consequences from my mom. It was a constant battle. Maybe tonght I'll dust off the Christmas songbooks and teach my son to sing Fum, Fum, Fum.

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