Piano

I have an electric keyboard. Originally it belonged to my parents. It stayed at Dad's after the divorce, thus, it became mine when he passed away. This keyboard has now sat unplayed in two of my apartments. Why would I keep a keyboard that seems to only be good for taking up space?

When I moved back into Dad's place after my Bluefield years, I decided that I wanted to teach myself to play the piano. I even got a book with self-teaching lessons. As a kid, I had taken piano lessons for about two years. In fact, April and I both took piano from Mrs. Nash at the Melody Haven music store on Church St. in Roanoke. Or is that Church Ave.? Not important.

Anyway, for awhile, we took lessons at that store. At some point we began taking lessons at Mrs. Nash's apartment. This was convenient because she lived at Stratford Park, where we had lived for a few years. I know I mentioned that I wanted to teach myself on this keyboard I have. Why would I need to do that if I took lessons all those years ago?

Well, one does not become a master pianist after two years of lessons. Especially if one does not practice regularly like one's teacher insisted that one should do. Because if one does not practice regularly, then one's parents will stop paying for lessons. One will likely regret one's decision not to practice all those years ago because one will probably wish one could play the piano.

Funny story though, I ended up becoming really good friends with Mrs. Nash's granddaughter in college. Small world.

Other things that I learned as a kid that I now cannot do: speak Spanish, cross-stitch, draw Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles, and properly brush my teeth (I'm pretty sure you're supposed to go up and down, but I insist on going side-to-side).