Big Year

We moved into a new house not far from our old one almost right after my surgery. Age five was a pretty significant year for me, come to think of it. My folks had asked the housekeeper who came with Walter when he and my mom got married. What she would do was wait until she was sure my folks were gone to their respective jobs, throw me in her car then we went back to her house for most of the day while she did her own house worker and, no, that is not a typo. I think he was like her third nephew once removed or some relationship just as appalling. I thought that was how it was supposed to be. We'd come screeching back into our driveway about an hour before my folks got home from week and she'd commence to slinging pots, pans and pork chops around to have some semblance of supper on the table by the time when the folks got home. In her rushing around trying to be shady she would get rather careless at times. Two particular incidents come to mind where she accidentally hit my arm with a pot of hot butter beans and then there was the unfortunate incident when she slammed a car door on three of my right hand fingers. Let's just say, she was replaced.

That's when Eva came into my life. She was a later middle-aged African American lady that doted on me every minute, kept our house spotless and had a delicious dinner made for us every night. She loved me as if I was her own child and I loved her so very much.

With the new house, and Eva, came a new piano and organ that might folks bough and plopped down in the living room. They told me my first lesson was the upcoming Saturday at supper on Thursday. Walter had found a dear, wonderful, immensely talented teacher who agreed to take me on even though I was just 5. Her general rule was not to take students until age 6 but with a little coaxing on Walters part she took me on. She was the organist at our church and could sit down and play any music ever written on the spot! Can I just tell you that while I loved and admired her very much I HATED piano lessons! They made me nervous and the required hour of practice every day really bit! After a few years of piano lessons, my teacher asked me if I would like to learn to sing. She was also a voice teacher. It was on like a chicken bone after that! I was in heaven! I had some pipes! She always had to transpose my songs into a lower key. Imagine part Ethel Merman part Cher !? which thinking back know must have been a very strange combination combination of musical styles coming out of a 10-year-olds mouth). At the first recital where she let me sing “Put Your Hand In the Hand” I got a standing ovation! Finally felt my self esteem come up a notch or two.