Planning for Retirement or “I know! I’ll take piano lessons!”

In my memoir class I wrote a series of letters to my daughter Lydia about my non-Dad life. Some touched on my “planning” for retirement, like the one below.

Dear Lydia:

Oh, the things we do in our quest for the perfect retirement. I didn’t want to be totally unprepared, so while I was working at the Hennepin County Attorney’s Office, supposedly part time, I would fantasize about what fun things I could do when I was finished working. That was my mistake, Throughout my life I spent way too much time fantasizing about what thing I was going to do as opposed to just doing that thing. A professional therapist like you might diagnose this as perseveration or rumination. I just spend too much time in my fantasy worlds, so that when I get around to doing the thing I’ve perseverated about and ruminated over, it’s not what I thought it would be. After all, fantasies don’t require us to confront the sometimes nasty difficulties real life presents.

I decided I would learn to play blues piano. The fantasies driving the decision? I would hire a blues band, ask them to play blues songs I had learned, with me playing blues piano, all at a birthday party I would throw for myself. In my second fantasy I would play blues piano with the WCCO Blues Band. Don Shelby was in that band. He’d support me. Doesn’t that sound fun? Doesn’t this sound like other fun things I conjured up? Like the fantasy of playing myself back into shape with old man’s softball, culminating in a trip to orthopedic urgent care. More on that another time.

So as retirement loomed, and my blues piano fantasy bloomed, I signed up for piano lessons at a reputable, and expensive, music school. Only the best for me. So one day I boldly entered the light-filled two story school atrium, confidently marched to the front desk, and authoritatively declared that:

“I want to take blues piano lessons!”

The young woman at the desk looked at me with her best “I am an artist. Who the fuck are you?” look, and in her equally best condescending tone responded:

“We have group lessons for senior citizens.”

With those seven words this snot-nosed child who’s Upspeak would rival any California valley girl had stirred the pot of my deepest anxieties and fed them to me with a large spoon.

With some difficulty I ignored the response my inarticulate inner child suggested. I figured “KISS MY ASS!’ just didn’t fit the quiet space we occupied.

“I’m not interested in group lessons. I’m not interested in lessons for senior citizens. I’d like to take piano lessons that focus on the unique set of chord progressions and rhythms that make up that American musical phenomenon known as blues.”

Actually, I really didn’t say that to her, although I thought it up after leaving the building. I did tell her I wasn’t interested in group or senior lessons and that my needs were quite specific. At that point another person approached me and said that indeed the school did offer the kind of lessons I was seeking. I’m sure it was my imagination, but I thought that she spoke a little louder and a little slower to me than she would to other, younger people, but perhaps my own sensitivities had been heightened my my interaction with Upspeak valley girl.

I signed up for a set number of lessons. A risk, I know, but I was spurred on by fantasy thoughts of accompanying BB King as he strummed the strings of his guitar, Lucille. Or at least the WCCO Blues Band.

I appeared well ahead of my scheduled lesson time. When the door to the music studio opened, a very, very young man walked out and shouted, “Mom! I’m done!” Mom came rushing down the hall, looking as eager to leave the building as her son clearly was. “Good,” I thought. “I’m sure the teacher will be pleased to spend the next hour with a mature person who is excited to be here.”

My teacher was a Spanish woman with a pleasing accent and genuine smile. I told her I wanted to learn blues piano, that I had taken lessons from time to time and that 35 years ago (was it that long?) I was playing some easier Beethoven and Brahms piano works. She placed some sheet music in front of me and said, “Play this.” There were clearly too many notes. After I struggled through two measures she told me to stop.

“Wow! It’s been awhile,” I said.

“Your hand placement is wrong; your wrists should be bent, not straight. Your fingering is wrong; Your fingers should be curled, not straight,” she said. “We will start from the beginning.” She placed a lesson book on the piano. In red letters it screamed “Adult Piano Primer – Book I.”

I opened the book. It had scales for each chord. It had fingering for each scale. I had to turn several pages before I found a song. That song only had single notes, first on the treble clef and then on the base clef. Several pages later the songs actually had notes on both clefs at the same time! Progress.

“But I want to learn to play blues piano. I took these lessons when I was in grade school,” I whined.

“You will eventually learn to play blues piano. But first you must learn to play the piano correctly. Then you will play blues piano correctly.” She said the phrase “blues piano” the way she might say “dog poop” or “radioactive waste.”

So I bent my wrists . . . sometimes. I curled my fingers . . . sometimes. I played scales . . . sometimes. I was reduced to seeking approval from my piano teacher for playing “Row Your Boat” bent and curled.

I’d been at it for several weeks. It was February. I found myself playing a simplified version of “Jingle Bells” – in February. Lydia, maybe you’ll say this was just another example of me getting excited about something and then quitting when I hit a bump. If so, I’m sorry. But really. “Jingle Bells” in February. No blues piano anywhere in sight. By the time she got to blues piano lessons I’d be destitute from all the tuition I’d paid and so arthritic I couldn’t play the piano anyway. Or . . . I could keep going and maybe be able to play “Jingle Bells” at Christmas in the home you’ve put me in.

I canceled the rest of my lessons, but didn’t receive a refund because that was against school policy. So I did the next best thing. I pretended I donated the remainder of my tuition and took it as a charitable deduction. Don’t tell.