Music in our House

Music in our house has endured through numerous mediums, an array of abilities, and a frequent lack of enthusiasm at its existence.

            This morning, we were serenaded by the trombone upstairs blatting through “A Yellow Rose of Texas,” at the same time lines from “Thriller” squeaked out from the clarinet in the back room.  I took another sip of my coffee, and thought back to years earlier.

            Kathryn was three or four when we began to notice that she had an ability where lyrics were concerned.  Upon hearing a song, she knew the words.  The tune, on the other hand, often remained a mystery in her version.  Silently, we would smile encouragement, ever thankful for her ability with lyrics, which for years served as our prompt for unrecognizable tunes.

            Her dreams of ever becoming a singer were dashed brutally on the rocks of sisterhood when Anna, at about age two, began to speak.  “Dop hingin’ Ka’hryn” was one of her first statements, which she often repeated.  Translation: “Stop singing, Kathryn.”  Kathryn’s big-sister response was usually, “Anna, hush up.  I HAVE to practice.”

            By the following year we realized that Anna had an ability where melodies were concerned.  She didn’t know, or didn’t care, that there were words that went with each tune.  She made up her own.  But the tune was sung, or hummed, very well.  Her version of “This Old Man,” for example, was flawless. With lyrics to match the current situation, whatever it might be.

            “We are in the car.  We are going to the store.  Oh, I just think it should stop rainin’ soon.  Or we’re gonna get wet.  Or we’re gonna get wet.  We are at the store.  Now we’re gonna get wet.”

            The ride home would again be “This Old Man” with a twist.

 “We are goin’ home.  We are takin’ all our groceries home. Maggie (our dog) is gonna be happy to see us and our groceries.  Yeah. Da, da da, da, da, da, da.  We are home now.  Yes, we are.”

            Kathryn, whose patience is slim normally, would be pulling her hair out in clumps by this time.  “Anna, those aren’t the words!  Anna, stop it.  Those aren’t the words!”

            To which Anna’s calm reply would be, “I can sing whatever I want to, Ka’hryn.”

            The tune-versus-lyrics thing came to a head shortly thereafter.  Kathryn had learned a number of patriotic songs to sing for a school music program.  She practiced hard, and frequently.  The choir performance went wonderfully.  She belted out each song.  You couldn’t hear her.  But you could tell she knew all the words.

            Four-year-old Anna sat mesmerized during the performance.  And on the way home she began singing from the back seat of the car, “Oh, this lamp is your lamp.  This lamp is my lamp…”  Patriotism became a community property issue.

            Kathryn’s blood pressure peaked.  “Anna that’s not the song.  You can’t sing that song.  That’s my song.  Anna, you’re singing it wrong.  Anna. Anna!”

            So, with singing going so well, and bringing such joy and beauty into our home, we decided to start the kids on piano lessons.  Kathryn started first.  A couple years later she was joined by Anna.

            They both progressed well with their piano, though their styles remained completely different.  Kathryn was meticulous.  She didn’t have much style or flair in her pieces.  But they were played with accuracy.  She didn’t seem to really care one way or the other about piano.  It was just something she did.  And if she was going to do it, by golly she was going to do it accurately.

            Anna, on the other hand, loved the piano.  She’d hurry through her practicing so that she could play one of her own creations.  At age five, she began to write her own music.  I think she may be the only person ever to use a dice to determine what note should come next.  A three on the dice meant that the next note would be three keys up from the previous note. The next roll determined how many keys down the next note would be.  She was all style, all flair.  If she played a wrong note it was okay, “it can go that way.”

            Kathryn would try to correct Anna.  “No, Anna.  That’s not right.  It’s your left hand that plays that, not your right.  Your left hand is your bottom hand.”

            And Anna’s response would be, “Okay, Kaffryn.  But it sounds pretty this way, too.”

            One particular afternoon, Anna bashed her way through the normally pleasant piece, “Ode to Joy.”  She made lots of mistakes.  But not to be concerned by that, she kept the flow going.  Deeply moved by her own rendition.

Kathryn, who was doing math homework in the dining room at the time, was beside herself.

            “Agh!  Mom, she’s driving me nuts.  That’s not how ‘Ode to Joy’ goes.”

            Navigating carefully to avoid being pulled into the middle of this one, I think I just smiled and nodded.

            When Anna was finished, she quietly shut her music book.  And with an angelic smile, she sighed, “Oh, I just love that ‘Odd to Joy’.”

            This morning as the trombone practice upstairs, and the clarinet practice in the back room, wrapped up I got to thinking about all the years of music we’ve endured in our house.  Through numerous mediums, an array of abilities, and a frequent lack of enthusiasm at its existence, music in our house has hung on.  And it’s looking like it will continue to be present in our house for at least a few more years.  Whether we want it or not.  And it won’t necessarily be good music.