by
Roy Closson
For as long as I can remember, I have craved to play a musical instrument. I don't mean, "would kind of like to." I mean "c-r-a-v-e-d."
Some people learn so easily. Within weeks they are playing simple melodies and many (especially in school) become part of a band. I have a cousin who plays the piano beautifully. She simply "picked it up". Can you believe that? It is not fair.
I, on the other hand, just can't seem to "get" it. Oh, I practiced, I studied, I paid my dues but my music sounds something like a freight train coming to a sudden stop.
My first attempt to learn was many years ago when I was twelve years old . My father bought me a new Leedy snare drum. It was beautiful. In a few weeks I could do a simple roll but I couldn't turn the 16th and 32nd notes on the written page into sound on my drum. Did you ever look at that stuff? Consequently, I couldn't join the band. I gave it a good try but I failed. It was not a happy time. About that time I was given a nice banjo. I don't even want to write about that experience.
Many years later I became interested in classical guitar music. I had watched artists in concert several times and they seemed to work the instrument with such ease and total control. I thought, "Why just listen? I will play the music myself. All it will take is lots of dedicated practice." Wrong. I practiced until the raw ends of my fingertips turned to calluses. I practiced until my hands ached from the inhuman, grotesque hand positions the wide neck of a classical guitar demand. After a few months, I quit. I couldn't stand listening to the noise coming from that very expensive wooden box.
In later years I have tried the electric guitar (neck too narrow, fingers too big) and a small keyboard (fingers too big). My last effort was with a standard sized keyboard. I had hope. The keys were wide enough and it made a beautiful sound. I practiced until I could play nice little tunes with my right hand. My problem was that when I tried to use my left hand, both hands froze and my mind would go blank. There was complete silence (which is much worse than a freight train coming to a sudden stop). After repeated efforts, I finally gave the keyboard to a member of our family.
I'm seventy one now, and I'll admit that my musical aspirations are waning. However, all is not lost. I can still play a mean rendition of "On top of Old Smoky" on my harmonica.
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