Growing up in Ogema we had a piano in our living room — actually it was a player piano. One would open the sliding door above the “regular pedals” and lift the hinged pedals forward. Then the fun began, we’d have to “pump” the pedals in order to have music. Kids running the show, I don’t think any of “parchment paper rollers” survived, but it was sure fun while it lasted.
Miriam took piano lessons from Mrs. Ernest Heden, and showed promise. Mom and Dad probably envisioned her becoming a church organist like Mrs. Heden. Going down the family ladder, neither Carl or John took lessons, but at ten-or eleven-years-old, my turn had come. (Actually, I’m sure it was all a part of my mother’s plan—she was determined I would become a missionary.)
Now one has to know a bit about the Heden family. Unquestionably they were at the top of Ogema’s social ladder. They owned hundreds of acres of timberland complete with a logging camp. The family patriarch owned the general store and his three sons were all successful in their own right. They all lived in lovely homes at the top of the hill where the Swedish Lutheran Church stood. Son Carl managed the timberland; son Folke was the president of the Ogema State Band and Ernest became a Wisconsin state senator.
Ernest met his wife Edith at the prestigious Swedish college, Gustavus Adolphus in St. Peter, Minnesota. For as long as I can remember she regaled worshippers with her expertise at the pipe organ every Sunday and offered piano lessons to the community during the week.
She was the epitome of elegance. I doubt she owned a housedress and certainly she had domestic help to manage their lovely home. I especially remember the deep (at least twelve feet) porch that wrapped around the west and south side of the house. Each summer the porch was adorned with wicker furniture, a porch swing and window boxes full of pink petunias. Their home was as beautiful as one would find in a Better Homes and Garden magazine.
One summer Ernest hired my brother John, who was probably twelve or thirteen, to paint the porch floor. He was very nervous, but tackled the project, and did a fine job.
So, I began piano lessons, probably in third or fourth grade, once a week after school. The perfectly coiffed Mrs. Heden always greeted me cordially. I followed her into the music room that adjoined the beautifully furnished living room. Between the two rooms lay a black bear rug, its stuffed head, complete with glass eyes and ivory teeth, staring at me.
I suppose we began with a John Williams beginner book. Mrs. Heden emphasized the 4/4 time or the ¾ time, the whole notes, the quarter notes, the half rests, the flats, the sharps—and oh my, it was a lot to learn.
At the end of the lesson, I gave her the quarter that Mom had tied into one corner of a hanky, and Mrs. Heden gave me my assignment for the nest week. Even the little notes she’d pen on the pages were elegant. Upon leaving, she always offered me a lemon drop from the crystal candy dish atop the Spinet piano.
At home I’d try to practice, but it wasn’t easy. If I tried after school the boys would make me stop, because they wanted to listen to “The Lone Ranger” or such on the Philco radio in our adjoining dining room. Other times Arthur, or later Ruth, would come to the piano to “help me play,” usually by banging on the bass keys. I’d complain to Mom, but she wasn’t very helpful. No doubt she seized those few minutes to accomplish something in the kitchen.
Often, I’d go to my lesson ill-prepared, certainly not the student my older sister had been. I think I continued for perhaps two years, but when high school loomed, the lessons discontinued. I’m sure Mrs. Heden was relieved.
At Westboro High School where I spent my freshman year, Mr. Ross, the band director, introduced me to an alto saxophone. I didn’t buy it—I think I rented it. Though it seemed easier than the piano, I had another problem. Apparently tone-deaf, I always needed assistance tuning the darn thing.
We moved to Osage my sophomore year and I chose, not necessarily wisely, to continue with band under Mr. Carpenter. My parents purchased a used sax and once again I tried. Tuning the instrument continued to be a major problem, but somehow, I limped through the remaining three years. I loved the social part of band—probably the reason I stayed.
Then on to Luther, majoring in the two-year elementary education program. A requirement for teaching in the fifties was to take either voice or instrumental lessons.
Mortified of singing, tone-deaf in the vocal department as well, I elected for piano lessons. I thought I might be able to play well enough for elementary kids in a classroom, but it was not to be.
Arriving at my first lesson in the piano studio, Dr. Nelson determined that because I could locate middle C, I certainly could master Debussy’s “Cake Walk.”
I bought the sheet music, practiced religiously in one of the drafty World War II barracks-turned-practice-rooms that semester. I never got even close to mastering the composition. Mercifully, he gave me a passing grade, probably thinking if he failed me, I’d have to repeat the class and be assigned to him again. If I could have graded him, he would have failed—he did not teach me anything in the area of my need.
So…after all these years, I do not sing in public. In the shelter of my own home, I sang lullabies for our babies and I can plunk out a simple tune on our keyboard.
But I have accomplished one thing. Very patiently, over the years, Paul has taught me how to hear the difference between notes that are sharp or flat. He’d sing a true note, then sing it flat, and next sharp. Slowly I learned and knowing the difference has really helped me appreciate music performed by others.
But performing myself? I think the Lord intended my fingers for other uses, such as kneading bread, digging in the dirt, writing, and of course knitting.
