The Piano Lesson

THE PIANO LESSON

There’s a particular word for a name that exactly suits the person who owns it.

Miss Baggs was a music teacher, piano, who came by streetcar, to our school in North Toronto.

She was a woman perfectly described by her name…a large woman, slightly dishevelled, dressed in brown tweedy, skirted suits, sensible brown leather laced shoes, over which flowed her ample ankles.

Her hair, brownish and wispy was styled, using the term loosely, in a nondescript windblown fashion. She wore soft, pale powder on her face, lipstick a bit ‘off’, and black eye brow pencil that had shot up over her eyebrows; the black line and the brow seemed never to coincide. She was a vision; a lovely one. Everyone adored her.

Over her shoulder, hung large tapestry bags which bulged with music books, picture sheets of Mozart and Chopin, theory papers and pitch pipes. It was a small school, so there was a general rustling as she approached the classroom across creaky old hardwood floors. I was always happy to hear her arrive as a relief from the terror inflicted upon us by the ever–unsmiling and strict Miss Barber who liked some of the girls. I was not one of them having been described as ‘restless’.

Miss Baggs large body, not to be unkind, was overwhelmed by her ample bosom which filled her flowered blouse from her neck to her waist. The buttons always seem ready to pop should she make any sudden moves.

As I watched her, day after day, teaching some of the girls, I determined I wanted lessons too. Apparently, the rules for parental consent were very relaxed as it was a few weeks before I was encouraged to tell my parents I had signed up.

I was five.

“I’ll be needing a piano soon”, I announced one night over dinner.

“Oh really”, said my father, “and why would that be?”

“ Well, Miss Baggs says I can’t get ahead by just using the cardboard fold-out thing.”

“ Miss Baggs?” came the reply as my mother served the mashed potatoes.

“Cardboard fold-out thing,”added my father.

“Yes, the fold-out key-board for my piano lessons. To practice on; a sort of pretend piano. With Miss Baggs, my piano teacher.”

“ Your piano teacher?”

“ Yes, well, I started a few weeks ago and she says I can’t continue unless I have a piano.
And, unless she gets some money for my lessons. I’ve had six.”

“Really. Well Miss Baggs and I should have a chat. You know this means practicing. This was a promise on which he never relented for ten long years.

My father did buy me a piano and I did continue piano lessons with Miss Baggs.

As a teenager, after I left that school, I took Saturday morning lessons with her at the Royal Conservatory of Music in Toronto, which, upon entering, one heard the most glorious symphony of pianos, violins, soprano and bass voices, cellos, all being played in separate rooms at the same time. I learned after that one of those pianos was being played by Glenn Gould.

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