Post 29: A Slap on the Wrist and Other Unfortunate Lessons

The next task was to find a teacher. Having no idea where to start, Mama confided in her fount of all knowledge, the bridge club. In the South in the ’60s, a bridge club was likely a subset of several venerable community organizations: the Junior League, the PTA, the wives of the Chamber of Commerce, any number of Reader’s Digest book clubs, a women’s auxiliary or two, and, of course, the First Baptist, St. John’s Episcopal, and the First Presbyterian churches. At the conclusion of the third Thursday afternoon game, Mama had three fully vetted candidates: Mrs. Amelia Jackson of South City, Mr. Jerome Pence in nearby Salem, and Mrs. Edward Solenson, located exactly halfway to GranMag’s house in Southwest City.

Mama wasn’t quite sure what qualifications to look for in a music teacher, so she turned to the teacher she knew and trusted: GranMag. GranMag pointed out that Mama’s research had likely resulted in three technically qualified and respected teachers. The last and most important qualification was: would Drew work for them? GranMag had recognized my intellect and my low tolerance for fools at an early age. If my music teacher couldn’t challenge me and command my five-year-old respect, it would be a doomed union from the start.

To that end, Mama decided to go through the extra expense of giving each candidate a tryout lesson. As it worked out, all three were available on the coming Saturday afternoon, so we scheduled my first preliminary lessons at one, two-thirty, and four p.m.

The first was at the South City home of Mrs. Amelia Jackson on Avenham Avenue. Unmarried, Mrs. Jackson clearly came from inherited money, Mama said later. The house was too nice, too well appointed, and too big to have been supported by a music teacher’s salary. Which left only two explanations: Mrs. Jackson was a wealthy widow who had reverted to her maiden name, or she had inherited the house and contents, lock, stock, and barrel, from wealthy parents.

Mrs. Jackson was clearly over forty, but still pretty and well put together. The first thing I noticed as she opened her front door was the strong scent of flowers. Or was it spices? The scent followed the three of us through the entry hall, the living room, the butler’s pantry, and into Mrs. Jackson’s music room.

Despite the overwhelming smell (Mama shot me a silent look that told me to stop making faces), the music room was a pleasant oasis of green plants placed in front of a long bank of windows facing Avenham Avenue. There were two chairs: a comfy one in the corner, clearly for reading or grading papers and such, and the other, a stiff-backed cane chair situated next to the piano.

But this was no ordinary piano.

As Mrs. Jackson ushered me around to the keyboard, I noticed the stately gold lettering adorning the interior lid: “Steinway & Sons.” It didn’t mean a lot then, but it would come to in the years ahead.

After some polite talk and a brief discussion about fees and the discipline of music, Mrs. Jackson showed Mama into what she called the “waiting room,” which was really just an alcove with a few chairs along a hallway leading to Mrs. Jackson’s downstairs sleeping porch.

Once we were alone, Mrs. Jackson began our one-hour lesson. The length of the lesson itself was Mrs. Jackson’s first mistake. Her second was the ruler she used to smack the small of my back while repeatedly admonishing me: “Sit up straight, Mr. Carter.”

It went downhill from there.

Her punitive ruler went from the small of my back to my wrists, which, apparently, weren’t sitting flat enough, “like little tables ready for dinner,” as she said, more than once. The ruler hurt and left small, straight welts on my little dinner tables and a sour feeling in my stomach. No one had ever—ever—struck me, save Mama or Daddy. And that was only lightly on the behind, and only for very grave offenses.

The hour wore on. Mrs. Jackson droned on and on about music history, music theory, music discipline, and music instruction. I slowly glazed over and had all but lost hope of actually creating any music that afternoon. When I came to, she was asking, apparently for the second time with some impatience, “I said, Mr. Carter, would you like to play something for me? Your mother says you’ve already mastered your first song.”

I froze. Nothing else had gone well. There was no reason to think this would. This nice-enough matron’s approach to music had, in a mere forty-five minutes, all but killed any idea I’d entertained that formal lessons might unlock the joy of music. Nonetheless, I dutifully placed my hands on the keyboard. Fearing another rap of her ruler, I instantly made my little tables and stopped to make sure she noticed. Her approving nod left me no other option but to play.

From the first keystroke, I learned the only real thing I would learn at Mrs. Jackson’s: the Steinway produces a sound unlike any other musical instrument in the world. I was so surprised and pleased with my first few notes that I stopped in sheer amazement and looked over to Mrs. Jackson in delight. She, however, showed no sign of delight or any other positive affect. “Why did you stop? Continue!”

This time, and the fifteen subsequent times I attempted to bring forth “Mary Had a Little Lamb” from the mighty Steinway, Mrs. Jackson delivered lessons in bone-numbing criticism: my tempo was too fast, then too slow; my touch too heavy, then too light. I held notes too long, my fingering was incorrect, my interpretation was lacking, and, of course, her stinging ruler reminded me that, yet again, I had failed to sit up straight.

She effectively conveyed that I had taken Mary’s lamb to the slaughter.

At the merciful end of the hour, I rubbed my hands and held back my tears. Mrs. Jackson told Mama, “We have a lot of work to do, but there is hope.” Mama smiled politely, but when she saw my face and the rising welts on my hands, her smile vanished. I had seen Mama mad before, but not quite like this and never directed at another adult.

Mama swore.

As Mrs. Jackson’s color drained from her face, Mama threatened all manner of retribution for striking her child. I was now in tears, and I was afraid Mama was going to cry, too. Finished with Mrs. Jackson and not interested in her reply, Mama avoided taking my welted hand and instead picked me up and carried me to our car.

Clearly, Mrs. Jackson was a no.

It would be two weeks before we could reschedule with Mrs. Edward Solenson. Irritated by our last-minute cancellation, Mr. Jerome Pence of Salem decided he was too busy to take on another student. Mama hung up from her call with him and muttered something like “hot-house flower” under her breath.