My Piano Teacher: Miss Willkie

By the time I was 10 years old, I dreaded Tuesdays. I walked very slowly home from school. And when I saw the silver grey Ford Falcon parked in front of my house, my stomach did flips. She was here again. I could look forward to an hour of hell. And I mean an hour—exactly—not a minute less. And when my torture was over, my brother could look forward to his.

Miss Hubertine Willkie was my (and my brother’s) piano teacher. Miss Willkie was ancient. Really ancient. You could get carbon-14 readings off of her. She enjoyed telling everyone how she was from one of the first founding families in Yonkers. Her dress was modest.  And she wore her hair rolled up onto the top of her head and secured it with pins. And in the late 1960’s where everyone wore plastic framed glasses, Miss Willkie wore wire frames—not the John Lennon kind—the Teddy Roosevelt kind. In fact she may have even voted for old Teddy. And on her feet she wore beige tied orthopedic shoes. She wore naphthalene as her signature scent. Her breath smelled like gingivitis.

Miss Willkie was a spinster. She had a “sweetheart” during World War I—not World War II—who died in combat. Miss Willkie was so overcome with sorrow and grief that she never had a gentleman caller ever again. She was rigid. Bitter. Her voice sounded a lot like Julia Child. Her favorite catch phrase was My Dear. And from what I could tell she didn’t like children very much—that is, except for Walter—who lived down the block. Walter was a musical prodigy. And it is a good thing because pretty much that is all that he had going for him. Walter was a social failure and Miss Wilkie loved him.

I had a bare minimum of musical talent. I had just enough talent to recognize that I had none. Sometimes I felt badly for my father—my father was a very talented musician and could play multiple instruments well. And my brother and I did not pull anything from that gene pool. But my parents wanted us to be exposed to music and thus they gave us piano lessons. And Miss Willkie was considered one of the best teachers—and she herself was cultured --and that’s how we got stuck with her.

I hated piano lessons and I really resented not being able to either play outside or watch TV to practice. My mother would yell from the other room Are you practicing? -- because I don’t hear anything.

And the selection of music for my lessons did not interest me either. Miss Wilkie only taught classical music. The only kid I knew who enjoyed classical music was Walter. And Walter was weird.

So my hour long piano lesson had lots of No! No! No! and You must practice more!! And why can’t you can’t you play like Walter? And the killer—you must keep your fingers up over the key board--You must have proper technique (like Walter.)

You see, I am double jointed in my fingers—I am  physically incapable of keeping my fingers up over the keyboard—even if I try I cannot do it--it is a genetic aberration---like the ability to roll your tongue. Miss Willkie either didn’t, or didn’t care to understand my physical handicap. She drew diagrams in my piano workbook of what my fingers looked like, and what they were supposed to look like.

And even though I was an obedient child and was prepared for the weekly verbal abuse, one day in the spring of 1970 I snapped. I guess the pre-teen hormones were making a debut. And while Miss Willkie was chastising me with her cutting tongue for my lack of musical talent and poor technique, I found anger rising in me—I was tired of this whole charade. So when for the umpth-teenth millionth time Miss Wilkie demanded why do you insist on not holding your hands up over the keyboard? I said in a not-so-respectful tone maybe you should ask Walter. And Miss Willkie turned ashen. And she picked up her little tote bag and she stomped up the steps and my mother asked what happened? And Miss Willkie started to cry. And I was in deep deep deep trouble. And even though I knew my mother was secretly delighted at my spunkiness, she made me apologize. I crossed my toes when I did it.

Weeks later there was a different ruckus. My brother asked Miss Willkie to play some music for him—Miss Wilkie could play any sheet of music you gave her. But my brother asked her to play Whole Lotta Love by Led Zeppelin. And Miss Willkie went into a tirade about rock and roll. She nearly had a coronary. My mother had to get her some Maalox and Excedrin. My poor mother had to smooth things over—again.

And even though it is evil to say, when Miss Willkie fell ill shortly after the Led Zeppelin incident and had to go to the nursing home, I was ecstatic. I could end my piano lessons gracefully. I did not have to tell my parents I desperate wanted to quit. Piano lessons had quit me first.

And when my daughters came of age, I too gave them piano lessons—I wanted to expose them to music like I had been. But I made sure the teacher was child centered. And Susan, their piano teacher, taught both classical and modern music to keep their interests going.  Because learning to play the piano is the root of all instrument play—the root of all music; just like ballet is the root of all dance. It’s like eating spinach. When you are young spinach does not taste very good even though it is good for you. But when you become an adult you appreciate its value and you find yourself ordering it at restaurants.

 And if I really focus, and the written music is not too treacherously difficult, I can still hammer some things out on the keyboard.  I am grateful for my knowledge. Piano playing is like riding a bike. You never forget.

Miss Willkie lived a very long time in the nursing home. She was nearly 100 when she died. From all reports she was ornery right up until the end. I am sure the nurses secretly clapped when her final performance was over. They had endured her much longer than I had— and that was too too long. Maybe God didn’t want her either.