The power of music

Today, Dad would have been 80.

Even though he died in 2011, he regularly visits me through such random, fleeting thoughts. Sometimes, it’s a tidbit like a birth date or a recipe ingredient. Other times, it’s a movie quote or a pun that he was fond of. Most often, he arrives through music.

Though Dad’s profession was banking, his true love was music, as an aficionado, composer, and performer, and that love was not lost on us kids. We listened to hours and hours of all genres of music growing up, although he leaned strongly classical. Beethoven and Mozart were regulars on our stereo, and Bach’s Brandenburg Concertos usually provided the sonic backdrop for our family’s Sunday card games.

He also made all of us take piano lessons, although I’m the only one who stuck it out for more than a couple of years. Though my brother and I dabbled in sports as kids, my parents almost never attended our games or practices. Music, however, was a different ball game.

Dad had a keen ear for misplaced notes, and as a piano player with fat fingers, I occasionally got rapped with Wrong note! in his sharp British tone while I practiced. To this day, I am morbidly afraid to perform for anyone — even a friend or two — for fear of playing a wrong note in mixed company.

But he instilled in me a deep love of music, and after leaving the fold, I still found time to play the occasional piece on a small piano that had been a wedding gift from my wife’s grandmother. Though it was no match for our family’s Schimmel grand, it was enough to keep the fingers moving over the years.

Whenever I would go visit my parents, I always looked forward to playing the Schimmel again. Its keys were larger than our upright’s, better suited for my heavy hands, and its majestic tone made me sound better, even with the occasional missed note. When Dad got sick, he rarely played, so Mom would have the piano tuned specially for my visits, just so the house could be filled with music once again.

A few years ago, I decided to recommit myself to playing the piano. For too long, I had replayed the same limited repertoire of ragtime and classical pieces from my youth, coupled with a few add-ons learned since my own kids had been born. So I invested in two books of music, from Sir Elton John and Billy Joel, and decided I would just play, with little worry about completion or perfection. Each day, I dedicated whatever time I could — sometimes 10 minutes, sometimes an hour — to practicing and playing, and trudged through, regardless of musical result.

Over the months, a few pieces came, and I rediscovered a joy I hadn’t felt in many years when it came to playing. During one visit to my folks, I told Dad about my new approach, with a focus on just playing, and decided to play a couple of selections from my expanded playlist, including Billy Joel’s “She’s Always A Woman.” With its repeated arpeggios, it’s a bit of a challenge for a fumble-fingered, heavy-handed player like me, and at the time, I was still struggling with the accidentals in the bridge. But it’s such a beautiful piece that I wanted to hear it on the Schimmel, despite the mistakes.

When I finished, Mom called out: “What is that? Dad quite liked that one.” I told her the title and then played a few more pieces before heading downstairs to join them.

“Liked that one piece,” Dad said. “Middle section needs a little work, though.”

Even though I had reached my 40s, Dad’s criticisms still stung, and I felt like I was 10 again. I resisted the urge to snap back and repeated my simple explanation: “Dad, like I told you — I’m just playing to play. I don’t care whether it’s perfect or not.”

Soon after that visit, we moved my parents from Pennsylvania closer to us so we kids could help Mom take care of Dad, whose health issues were beginning to overtake him. Though he had fended off a bout with cancer, he had had a stroke just prior to the move, which had affected his once-sharp mind. Because the new home had no room for the piano, my parents gave the Schimmel to my wife and me, a wonderful, priceless gift.

In the weeks before he died, I spent several days with my parents to give Mom a break from taking care of Dad, who by this time was wheelchair-bound and gradually slipping away mentally. My siblings and I had to force Mom to take breaks from the exhausting round-the-clock care, but occasionally, we could coax her out for a bridge game or a quick trip to the store.

One afternoon when Mom was off, it was only Dad and I, and I thought he might enjoy listening to some music. I pulled out what I was sure would be a hit: a Beethoven symphony. But he shook his head; the sonorous melody didn’t interest him at all. So I tried his favorite piece, Mozart’s Symphony No. 40, the piece he had dreamed of conducting someday. Again came the shaking head, and simply, “No.”

I was puzzled by his lack of interest. I scanned his expansive CD collection and decided to try another route: Time Out by the Dave Brubeck Quartet, which features the jazz classic “Take Five,” a piece Dad had played for us often when we were kids.

“Ah,” Dad said, his eyes widening. “That’s quite nice.” He smiled, then closed his eyes. For the next 38 minutes, we listened to the entire disc without a word. When it ended, I played it again, all the way through, hoping to cling to the moment for just a little longer.

Not long after that visit, we lost Dad. At his funeral, I played one of my favorite pieces he’d composed — yes, it had some missed notes — and in his eulogy, I talked about his dedication to us and to music.

At home, after the funeral, I sifted through the stacks of Dad’s music books, dug out an old volume of Time Out transcriptions, and decided it was time, finally, to tackle “Take Five,” despite the difficulty of its six-flat key and 5/4 time signature.

To this day, it is one of the few pieces I can play from start to finish with nary a missed note.

Happy birthday, Dad.