My instincts are usually pretty good about what I should do—and what I should run away from as fast as possible.
This was true even when I was a kid. I was faced with a dilemma: I was being forced to take piano lessons at Mount St. Mary’s Convent with an elderly nun, Sister Catherine Dominica, but even though Sister Catherine Dominica was actually pretty nice (she gave her students, good or bad, gingersnaps after every session), the lessons were truly nasty. The experience rivaled listening to Liberace or watching The Lawrence Welk Show on TV. And I knew for sure this was not the road to becoming the next piano-banging Jerry Lee Lewis or Little Richard.
I can still vividly remember the numbing boredom of repeating scales and the tedium of memorizing not one, not two, but three different versions of “Ave Maria.” And I actually liked “Ave Maria”! All three versions.
I have a decent Irish tenor voice, so I sang a little in the church choir in those days. But I couldn’t handle piano lessons at the convent plus endless practice on the tone-death spinet in our living room. I finally told my mother I’d had it.
My grandfather leaned into the conversation and said I’d always regret not learning how to play the piano. He was right. Pop was usually right. He also told me to stand up with my back straight or I’d always walk with a slouch.
Today, I walk with a slouch. And I can’t play the piano.
Even though I gave up on the piano, I never gave up on music. Back when I was growing up, I was a big Elvis fan. Here’s an Elvis story.
We used to have family get-togethers in the summer. My father and his brother, the famous Uncle George, rented a cottage on a small lake and we would all bunk in together for a week or two. I would cajole my cousin Patty, who was two days older than me and a real sweetheart, to walk a mile and a half with me to a lakeside candy store just so I could play Elvis Presley songs on the jukebox. I think I got three plays for a dime. I remember that “Don’t Be Cruel” and “Hound Dog” were on the same 45. So were “Teddy Bear” and “Treat Me Nice.” And I still believe “Love Me Tender” is a great love song.
Elvis was controversial in those days, especially at our house. The swivel hips, the sensuous lips, the whole sexy-man vibe. If you were a Catholic kid, listening to Elvis was a no-no. Even so, one year I collected Elvis Presley cards. You got a pack of cards and a slab of bubble gum with a mysterious white powder all over it. When my mother found out, she shamed me into throwing my Elvis cards out. She said they were sinful and told me I should confess to a priest about the Elvis trading cards. So I did.
The priest said, “Who doesn’t like Elvis Presley?”
My mother.