Fled is that music
Perhaps I should not over-dramatize. The issue here is child-raising; the child, my son, recently turned twelve; the specter, our family piano. Like all good bourgeois parents–and no doubt many bohemian ones, too–we wanted our kids to be able to play some musical instruments. Neither Straggler parent can do so. We both came to serious music too late in life to properly acquaint ourselves with it, and we both regret this. The children, we resolved early on, would get full exposure to music, and would play one instrument apiece, at least.
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With our daughter, the first child, everything went according to plan. We started her at age five on the violin, under the inscrutable ministrations of a local Japanese lady and the much more distant spiritual influence of Dr. Shinichi Suzuki (who, I am mildly surprised to learn from Wikipedia, had only just died, aged 99). Now, nine years later, our lass plays the violin as naturally as she walks, and her practices fill the house with lovely sound. Girls, as everyone says, are so much easier.
We started the boy out on a small electronic keyboard at age six. He seemed to like it, or at least not to mind it (it is not always easy to know what’s going on inside a first-grader’s head), so we rolled the dice and bought an upright piano. I understand now that the boy’s infant brain had taken the keyboard lessons to be a transient feature of life’s pageant, like a bout of influenza or a trip abroad. With the arrival of the piano, and parental grumbling about how much it had cost, and the discipline of weekly lessons and daily practices, it dawned on him that this was to be something that would go on forever.
