Fond memories of learning to play the piano? Not so much for this columnist (and that’s OK)

For four years of my sun-kissed, sibling-filled childhood, supported by a hopeful mother and an upright Kawai, I took piano lessons. So did sisters No. 1 through 4, and Sister No. 6.

Every week, the beautiful Ms. Evelyn Bella would glide into our home at 2 Laura Street, set up shop at the piano and guide the six Vicente Girls through our majors and minors.

We usually went by birth order, clutching our Michael Aaron piano course books as we trudged to the piano bench, greeted by Ms. Bella’s melodious contralto in turn: “Did you practice this week?” “For how long?”

My lovely, long-suffering piano teacher knew my answers to these questions would always be, “Uh, maybe?” and a shrug that said “Not long enough to discern any improvement in my skills from last time.”

Yet if you asked her today, she would say I was a wonderful pupil. She is Mrs. Almaden now, in her 70s and living in Garden Grove, and she could still name us sisters eldest to youngest. She remains beautiful.

After months of training us piano hopefuls, she took over a hall at St. Ann’s Academy, threw Persian rugs over wooden stages, ordered flowers in the shape of giant treble clefs and presented her students in a spectacle of a piano recital. Sometimes, she would pair us up (a Czerny sonata for four hands, “Tarantella” one year) and others we went solo.

I love Mrs. Almaden, but I did not love the piano. And to be fair, it didn’t love me back.

It was work: learning to read music, practicing my scales, completing warm-up exercises without a mistake, over and over. My propensity for daydreaming got in the way of playing “Edelweiss” or learning what allegro and mezzo forte meant.

The pinnacle of my musical career was playing “Swans on the Lake” perfettamente.

Don’t get excited: it was “Swans on the Lake” — not Tchaikovsky’s Swan Lake — a sweet little piece from John Thompson’s Modern Course for the Piano, Grade One. I can still play it for you, and sing the lyrics too, if you’re feeling brave.

The advent of a substitute piano teacher who wielded a ruler, a metronome, and none of Mrs. Almaden’s sweetness, signaled the end of my mother’s Mozart dreams.

My tears convinced her to allow me to quit. It was the first time I’d asked to give anything up. I packed up my books in reserve for my younger sister, who was still enamored of the piano and is able to play by ear to this day.

Many year and one country later, I would wait until my sons were also in tears before allowing them to stop their piano lessons. I hoped they’d take to the instrument better. Later, they’d teach themselves guitar and ukulele and we would all endure their painful handling of the recorder.

We agree it was all in the trying, wasn’t it? Certainly, it’s not too late to learn anew.

In the meantime, my cousin sent me photos of old piano books he’d unearthed from the piano bench of our steadfast Kawai.

I loved seeing them again and had to smile at the thought of another little girl plucking at the keys, however unhappily. The beat goes on.

Anissa V. Rivera, columnist, “Mom’s the Word,” Pasadena Star-News, San Gabriel Valley Tribune, Whittier Daily News, Azusa Herald, Glendora Press and West Covina Highlander, San Dimas/La Verne Highlander. Southern California News Group, 181 W. Huntington Drive, Suite 209 Monrovia, CA 91016. 626-497-4869.

Get the latest news delivered daily!