Photo: Piano crunch by Olivander. [click on the picture to read another story about a piano]

I spent a good part of the weekend being all swoony and wistful and soundtracking my frame of mind with my favorite piano music. Echoey, lovely, sad. Erik Satie. Scott Joplin, as played by the wonderful Alexander Peskanov. Chopin. Beethoven — oh, the sonatas!

If I had a old, tattered wedding dress I would have worn it, and I would have drunk gin from a jelly jar, and run my hands along the dusty, faded family portraits. And invited young southern men into my parlor to “set a while.” And I would have twirled and twirled.

Well, maybe I twirled a little, even without the crazy-spinster accoutrements.

I was forced to take weekly piano lessons from ages 8-18, even though it was clear the pathway between my neural note-interpretation and my fingers was a murky one. It did not help that I very rarely practiced.

At 17, my teacher (the last of many) decided that I should learn to play “Maple Leaf Rag” by Joplin — the full version, featuring octave-plus finger reaches that were especially difficult for me, as my hands were (and are) very small. As much I would like to blame my parents, my teacher, or my wee hands, I have no one to blame but myself — as recital time drew near, I had better things to do than practice, such as skip school, swim at Jones Beach, and sneak off into Manhattan to do some New Wave dancing!

My dad, smelling disaster, and in no mood to be an unconditionally supportive parent to his surly and counting-the-seconds-till-leaving-home daughter, opted to boycott the recital. So alone I went to the show, without sheet music (not allowed! I should have memorized it by then!) and drooling slightly from that day’s dentist appointment.

I was, by far, the oldest performer there. My teacher saved my song till the last, as a special treat for the audience, who had winced their way through a legion of 7-year-olds pecking out “Hot Cross Buns.”

Although this was the 80s, it was not an 80s ending. I did not dig deep, nor wow the crowd with a perfect performance. I was hoisted on no shoulders. My father was not standing just outside the hall, tears streaming down his proud face. There was no fadeout on my triumphant freezeframe, caught mid-jump, little fists pumping in the air.

The real story is that I labored through the first few lines of the piece, over and over, trying to remember the next part. I kept trying, until the teacher told me to stop, and to leave the stage. Which I did, to polite golf-applause and utter humiliation.

So, yeah, I can read music. And I listen to music. But I don’t play music.

And I twirl, and twirl again.