I grew up in a Parsonage. When we moved from Philadelphia on the East Coast to a small town on the West Coast, we moved away from the first piano. I had been teaching myself to play. The cost of moving a piano from coast to coast was too much. To my delight, the new house had a piano in it. To my dismay I discovered that it belonged to the previous owner and would be gone as soon as she made arrangements to move it.
My brothers and I pose for a Christmas Card
That borrowed piano helped a lot in transitioning from the streets of Philadelphia to the little wheat town where only the highway was paved. My new world was one I could hardly comprehend. I spent a lot of time with that piano, trying to work out how to play it.
There was no money for lessons, but both of my parents had taken lessons as children, and were able to help me when I got stuck. With their knowledge, a hymn book, some abandoned Etude sheet music, and a lot of time on my hands, I began to play pretty decently. I quickly began picking out my favorite hymns. I had learned how to play Silent Night, cords and all, while still in Philadelphia. That had worked out pretty well, so I began searching out the hymns I knew (I knew a lot) and learning to play them.
I became immersed in music. Then, one day, the piano’s owner came and took it away while I was at school. I was devastated. I cried. I stormed. It didn’t change anything. It was gone.
My childhood home was always busy with people coming and going for this thing or another. One day a parishioner who had admired my intense learning, came to visit my father. The corner where the piano had been was noticeably empty. “Where’s Marilynne’s piano?” He asked. My father explained the situation and nothing more was said.
Once in a while, when my parents were at the church, I could play the Sunday School piano, but it wasn’t the same as having my own. I was very sad.
Some time later I came home to find a different piano in place of the old one. The parishioner, not a wealthy man, had been shopping for something else and saw this piano at the store. The finish had checked, it’s beautiful shine ruined, but there was nothing wrong with the piano itself. He told the store about my losing the piano and asked them for a real deal on it. Somehow a deal was made, the piano was delivered, and it was mine.
My progress was extraordinary. One wintry night my father came to me and told me the church pianist was snowed in. We needed someone to play that night. He asked what hymns I knew how to play. I must have rattled off quite a number of them because he clarified. Do you know how to play this? or this? Between us we found enough suitable hymns for me to play for the Wednesday night service. I was 11 or 12 when I played for that service. I still hadn’t had a lesson.
Eventually my lack of lessons caught up with me. Another parishioner had offered to pay for lessons. I presented myself to the world of order and learned something I hadn’t known. My teacher asked me to bring something to play on my first visit. I brought The Magic Flute. “Oh my dear,” she said, “has no one taught you about how to play in time?” So far, no one had noticed my lack of learning, because my playing had been music I had already heard. For the Magic Flute, I just made up some time that sounded nice to me.
Discipline in my music entered my life. I liked my teacher and she didn’t have a hard time dealing with me being able to play on sight a piece of music I’d heard, but not have a clue about the timing on music I hadn’t heard. Notes, sure. Time? What was that?
The goodness of our parishioners continued. Our congregation had built a small, but exceedingly beautiful little church. One couple impulsively bought a used pipe organ for the church. Again, it was a bargain, but they argued that such a beautiful church needed an organ. The problem was, no one knew how to play it – except for my music teacher who was leaving at the end of the term.
All of the teen girls who wanted to learn to play the organ, very quickly got the basics. I had three lessons before the teacher moved. We took turns playing for church services.
I loved the organ with a passion formerly reserved for the piano. I would go into the quiet church on weekdays and fill it to the rafters with music. I explored. I stretched my knowledge. I learned to play the foot pedals. Then our music teacher left and so did my family by the middle of summer.
We were great movers, our family was. We now moved from the Pacific Northwest to California. I was dismayed to find the new church had no organ. It had a pianola – which tried to imitate the organ, but it definitely wasn’t an organ. However, I was soon pressed into service playing it. I didn’t like it, but I did it.
Fortunately, my piano moved with us this time and I filled our tiny parsonage with music of all sorts. So, I was OK. My piano was an ugly duckling with a heart of beautiful sound. It grew scratched and worn, but the rosewood sounding board was solid and in good shape.
Then, our church bought an electronic organ. I’d never known such a thing existed. I quickly learned to play it. The salesman wanted to pay me to demonstrate it to other churches, but I felt he was caught on the “three organ lessons” and might use that to show that it was easy to learn. I wanted no part of that.
On the day I was married we had a problem. The organist was getting married. The alternate organist was standing up with me. Someone played for the service. She did the best she could and I was grateful for it.
Soon my husband and I and our babies were living in a tiny house. The piano dominated the living room, but I spent many happy hours playing, often playing while one of the babies sat between my legs and banged on the keys. They grew up with a piano in the house and learned to play it.
The piano went through many moves with our family. Our children grew up and my husband wanted to move to Alaska. Do you know what it costs to move a piano to Alaska? You probably don’t want to know. I sadly sold it and bought an electric piano. I could carry it myself. I didn’t want to go to Alaska without my music.
In the many places we lived, I often played the organ for church. The Saturday before my middle daughter was born, I called the Pastor and told him I couldn’t play on Sunday. He said there was no one else. I said “Then so be it. I’ve been asking for relief for months.” It’s difficult to play the organ when you’re very pregnant. I simply couldn’t do it.
That Sunday, while the congregation had their music-free service, my husband and I welcomed our second daughter into our family.
My family was invited to the Anniversary celebration of the little church where I had learned to play the organ. I got tired of all the chatter and such and went upstairs to where the pipe organ still sat. I couldn’t have ignored it if I’d tried. I slipped onto the bench, set the hymnbook on the stand and began to play. Pretty soon I had an audience and I played for an hour or more, just happy to be doing it.
I return to play the organ.
Someone took the picture. When you see that picture, look through the woman playing it and see the young teen learning to play it because I needed to know it. See the child picking out tunes on the piano. See the generous people who supplied my piano, my lessons, the actual organ. They were so instrumental in the pleasure I gained from the music. Each of them gave what they could. None of them could know of the lifetime of enjoyment and service that resulted from their gifts.
Who knows what a child will grow up to be? Who knows that a small thing given can grow into something that changes a life?
Marilynne
