I started piano lessons with Sister Aimee when I was six years old. We lived in a duplex across the street from St. Peter Catholic Church. The convent and grade school were a few houses away. My grandparents lived upstairs.
Because we didn’t have a piano, I practiced on an old piano in the church basement, where the church custodian lived. He drank whiskey from a bottle and smelled terrible. I thought he was creepy and I tried not to think about him as I practiced my lesson, alone in the church basement.
When I was eight years old, we moved into our own home two blocks away. My Aunt Margaret gave us a piano, so I didn’t have to practice in the church basement any more.
Sister Aimee was my teacher for the next eight years. She taught only classical music. Popular music was strictly forbidden. In addition to teaching seventy children to play the piano, she also taught music at the Catholic school and directed both the church choir and the children’s choir. She put on an elaborate Christmas pageant every December and an operetta in the spring. I don’t think she ever slept, which probably accounted for her demeanor, which was nothing short of terrifying.
Sister Aimee was tall and skinny. I don’t remember ever seeing her smile. She would check the length of our fingernails before every piano lesson. If they were too long, by her standards, she would grab our hands and forcibly cut the offending nails. The sound of fingernails clicking against piano keys drove her crazy. It was not the only thing that put her over the edge.
Every spring Sister Aimee scheduled an audition at the MacPhail School of Music for all of her students over the age of eight. We were judged by highly trained classical pianists. Thinking back on it, I realize now that Sister Aimee felt that she was the one being judged. If we failed, she failed. She wasn’t going to let that happen.
All year we prepared for our spring audition. We had to memorize ten songs, in varying degrees of difficulty. We had to come to the audition wearing our best clothes, not our tacky school uniforms. By February the pressure was palpable.
Every Monday, Sister Aimee reminded me that I was one of her worst students. Then she would recite a litany of her worst pupils. “You and your brother, Madonna and James Francis, and the Tracys. All of you have lessons on Mondays, so I don’t have to think about you the rest of the week.”
What a strange teaching technique! All of this came to an end when I was in the eighth grade. It was a Monday, as usual, and I entered the piano studio with a sense of dread. The audition was less than a month away.
“What did you work on special this week?” Sister Aimee wanted to know.
“Nothing,” I replied. I meant that I had worked on all my pieces. I didn’t work on anything special. She thought I meant I had not practiced at all.
Sister Aimee went berserk. “Don’t look at me in that tone of voice,” she shouted. “Take off your glasses.”
I did as I was told. I took off my glasses and Sister Aimee slapped me across the face. Hard! And then she continued to slap me. Back and forth she slapped, until finally she caught herself and told me to go home.
My mother knew something was wrong when I came through the door. My face was red and I had been crying.
“What happened to you?” she asked.
“Sister Aimee hit me.”
“Why did she do that?”
“Because I didn’t practice anything special this week.”
When my father came home from work that night, I heard my parents talking in their room.
And then a miracle happened. My father, who rarely spoke to anyone and never used the telephone, picked up the phone and called the convent. He asked to speak to Sister Aimee.
“Sister, this is Bob Jones. Mary Lynda and Robert will not be taking piano lessons any more.” Then he hung up.
The following Saturday, my brother and I were in the car, going to meet our new piano teacher, Hod Russell. Hod was one of the very best Dixieland Jazz piano players in the Twin Cities. He was a kind and gentle man. He told my mother that my brother and I were two of his very best students. I took lessons from Hod for the next four years. I never opened another book of classical music. I never had another audition or recital. Music was my joy and my salvation.
The moral of this story is obvious: Often the worst moments of your life turn out to be the best. In my case, that has certainly been true.
I love the last sentence. Having life challenges, as you know, and this phrase will stick with me all day. Hopefully all week, month, and lifetime. Thank you so much for sharing this story. You are definately a colorful soul and lively person. Glad you got to experience a new taste in life.
Oh My,
I can picture Sister Aimee as I read this… I remember going along to a lesson, I think it was yours, waiting, sitting just outside the room listening to your piano lesson, hearing what sounded like a stick striking piano keys and knuckles. I was thanking the heavens that I didn’t have a lesson..but I did have to contend with Sister Evangelista and her threatened checkered apron.. It was as you say. But, I’m still waiting for my memory to fade with remembering all the hours kneeling on the cold marble hallway floor, before the statue of the Blessed Virgin Mary. I counted her toes endlessly. I’ll never recover from having to look at that snake she stood on. I will always fear them.
However, I loved to hear you play the piano, and wished so much that I could . Great story again !!
It’s interesting how we never forget our childhood experience of taking piano lessons, nor forget the teachers name. Mrs. Stephenson lived a couple blocks from our house, and she had my brother, sister and me for years. What a sweet and kind woman she was! My brother was a natural, but my sister and I had to work at it. In later life, my sister went on to be a piano teacher also. She lost her beautiful piano, the bench and all her ages old sheet music in Hurricane Katrina and I felt so very sorry for this was truly one of her tension relievers. Everyone in my family was musical, cousins included. It brought great joy to all of us.
Gosh, do you have a knack for storytelling! I love these pieces, Lynda!
You became an accomplished pianist so apparently all those lessons stuck. My lessons did not; perhaps I needed a Sister Aimee or at least some natural talent.
Loved the mention of the old piano in the church basement. Good memories for sure.
I also took piano lesson from a nun at my grade school. Thank god my teacher was kind, but I was never a remarkable student. Yours is not the first story of religious abuse I have heard from friends and relatives. I am happy your dad stepped up!
Carol( lovin Rincon, PR.
I am so glad you were able to hang to the joy of music–Sister Aimee certainly forgot this, sadly even for herself I suspect.
Hi Lynda,
I appreciate this story and all the time and energy you have put into Piano playing . You are a wonderful pianist and I particularly enjoyed it when you came to play at my home on New Years Eve in 1999- to 2000. The Millenial. You played pop and Broadway tunes, we all loved it. So I have known for a long time you can write essays, narratives, books and play piano.
You may have other surprises in store for us. 🙂 looking forward to it.
thank you again.
Have Fun in Mexico!
Laurie
Lynda,
I appreciate the time and energy you have put into piano playing. I particularly appreciated it when you played piano at my home on New Years Eve 1999-2000. The Millenial. You played pop and Broadway tunes. We loved it. Thanks again!
So I have known for a long time that you are an accomplished pianist, and a writer of narratives, essays, books.
You may have more surprises in store for us 🙂 I look forward to it.
Have fun in Mexico!