Subject: piano lessons

 At the prodding of my friends, I am writing this story.
 My name is Mildred Hondorf.   I am a former
 elementary school music teacher from Des Moines,
 Iowa.  I have always supplemented my income by
 teaching piano lessons which is something I have
 done for over thirty years.  Over the years I found
 that children have many levels of musical ability.   I
 have never had the pleasure of having a protege
 though I have taught some talented students.  However,
 I have also had my share of what I call "musically
 challenged" pupils.  One such student was Robby.

 Robby was 11 years old when his mother (a single
 mom) dropped him off for his first piano lesson.  I prefer that students (especially boys!) begin at an earlier age, which I explained to Robby. 
 But Robby said that it had
 always been his mother's dream to hear him play the
 piano.  So I took him as a student.   Well, Robby
 began with his piano lessons and from the beginning I
 thought it was a hopeless endeavor.  
 As much as Robby tried, he lacked the sense of tone and basic rhythm needed  to excel.  He dutifully reviewed his scales and some elementary
 pieces that I require all my students to learn.
  Over the months he tried and tried while I listened and cringed and tried to encourage him. 
 At the end of each weekly lesson he would
 always say,
 "My mom's going to hear me play some day."

 But it seemed hopeless.  He just did not have any inborn ability. I only knew his mother from a distance as she dropped Robby off or waited in her aged car to pick him up.  She always waved and smiled but never stopped in. 

Then one day Robby stopped coming to our lessons.  I thought about calling him but assumed because of his lack of ability that he had decided to pursue something else.  I also was glad that he stopped coming.  He
 was a bad advertisement for my teaching!

 Several weeks later I mailed a flyer on the upcoming recital to the student's homes.  To my surprise Robby, who received a flyer, asked me if he could be in the recital.  I told him that the recital was for current pupils and because he had dropped
 out he really did not qualify. 
 

He said that his mom had been sick and unable to take him to the lessons but he was still practicing.  "Miss Hondorf...I've just got to play!" he insisted.

 I don't know what led me to allow him to play in the recital. Maybe it was his persistence or maybe it was something inside of me saying it would be alright. 

 The night for the recital came.   The high school gymnasium was packed with parents, friends, and relatives.  I put Robby up last in the program
 before I was to come up and thank all the students and play a finishing piece.  I thought that any damage he would do would come at the end of the program and I could always salvage his poor performance through my "curtain closer."

 Well the recital went off without a hitch.   The students had been practicing and it showed.  Then Robby came up on stage. His clothes were wrinkled and his hair looked like he had run an eggbeater through it.  "Why didn't he dress up like the other
 students?" I thought.  "Why didn't his mother at least make him comb his hair for this special night?"  Robby pulled out the piano bench and he began.  I was surprised when he announced that he had chosen Mozart's Concerto #21 in CMajor. 

 I was not prepared for what I heard next.  His fingers were light on the keys, they even danced nimbly on the ivories.  He went from pianissimo to fortissimo...from allegro to virtuoso.   His suspended chords that Mozart demands were magnificent!  Never had I
 heard Mozart played so well by people his age. 

 After six and a half minutes he ended in a grand crescendo and everyone was on their feet in wild applause.  Overcome and in tears I ran up on
 stage and put my arms around Robby in joy. 

 "I've never heard you play like that Robby!  How did you do it?"  Through the micro- phone Robby explained.  "Well Miss Hondorf...remember I told
 you my mom was sick?  Well actually she had cancer and went to live with God  this morning.  And, well,...she was born deaf so tonight was the
 first time she ever heard me play.  I wanted to make it special."

 There was not a dry eye in the house that evening.  As the people from Social Services led Robby from the stage to be placed into foster care, I noticed that even their eyes were red and puffy.  I thought to myself how much richer my life had been for taking
 Robby as my pupil.  He was the teacher and I was the pupil for he taught me the meaning of perseverance, love, and believing in yourself.  No, I have never had a protege but that night I became a protege...of Robby's.

 This is especially meaningful to me since after serving in Desert Storm Robby was killed in the senseless bombing of the Alfred P. Murrah Federal Building in Oklahoma City in April of l995 there he was reportedly playing the piano.

 And now, a footnote to the story...If you are thinking about forwarding this message, you are probably thinking about which people on your address list are not the "appropriate" ones to receive this type of message.  The person who sent this to you
 believes that we can all make a difference.  We all have thousands of opportunities a day to help realize God's plan. So many seemingly trivial interactions between two people present us with a choice.  Do we pass along a spark of the Divine?  Or do we pass up that opportunity and leave the world a bit colder in the process?  You have two choices now:

          1.   Delete this.
           2.   Forward it to the people you care about.

 You know the choice I have made.  Thank you for reading this.

HOME