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? He says, ? Son can you play me a memory? I? m not really sure how it goes, But it? s sad and it?
s sweet and I knew it complete When I wore a younger man? s clothes. ? ? I sat in the kitchen of my uncle? s quaint, cottage home on the English countryside. The subtle house seemed as though it had been built according to a description out of Wuthering Heights. The late-afternoon sunlight shone through the adjacent windowpane, sparkling through Uncle Adrian?
s silvery hair. I marveled at the majestic view from that window; it was like a still-life painted by the hand of God. The autumn-stricken trees, the cobblestone walkway, the way the green, grainy vines had crept up his surrounding wood fence, it was all so poetic. The short, stocky, and tremendously kind-hearted man slumped over the piano next to me and sang and played Billy Joel?
s? Piano Man? . I continued to gaze out the window, relishing the harmony between the piano and the still-life. Simply beautiful. The music stopped. Uncle Adrianfixed his eyes on mine, and I looked up at his face, youthful at the foundation but worry time, and I said, ?
Play it again, Uncle Adrian. ? He was always my favorite uncle, and that day we had bonded through the universal language, music. I was a seven-year old child then. And that day, that moment, I resolved to myself that one day, I am going tobe a? piano man?
just like Billy Joel and Uncle Adrian. That winter I got my wish. The ice on the windows of my New Jersey home created a translucence that reflected the blue, red, and white ribbons adorning the Christmas presents that lay untouched under the tree. My mother to my left, drowning in the stupor that inevitably envelops all parents on Christmas morning, looked on as I ripped into the well-wrapped presents. Oh my! My eyes could hardly focus, I was so excited.
I had just opened my first present and, with equal excitement, I ripped the box open so fast that the musty, stale odor of ripped cardboard rose into the air. Inside the box, I found a? Casio E-Z Play Keyboard? . The keyboard was about a foot and a half wide and had keys about an inch wide. This was fine for me because my small seven-year-old hands probably couldn?
the handled anything bigger anyway. I remember the ivory keys being so glossy, that I could look into them and see my innocent, careless face looking right back at me. There and green lights above each key would light up each time I turned it on. There was assail cartridge in the upper, left-hand corner with the large words? GREENSLEEVES? etched on it.
When I flicked switch in the upper right corner into? E-Z Play Mode? , it would teach me how to play? Greensleeves? by lighting up the red or green light in sequence over which keys need to be played. Apparently, one could buy more cartridges, but?
Greensleeves? was just fine for me. For about a year after that Christmas, a normal afternoon would consist of pushing my cold, lifeless He-Men action figures aside and sitting on my green, pin-striped, twin-sized bed with my? E-Z Play?
in hand. I was captivated by the music, and even more enthralled that the sounds that emanated from the tiny speaker were coming from my hands. Simply beautiful. I would play?
Greensleeves? over and overall over, so much so that my mother would open my door and huddle herself over means ask if I ever got tired of playing with my keyboard. I would say, ? No, Mommy, ? and continue to play. Eventually, I taught myself how to read music, and how to play by early that very same grayish keyboard.
However, I started to retrieve it less and less. Mind soon became filled with things like girls, homework, and the rigors of adolescence, that my musical interest and my? E-Z Play Casio Keyboard? took a backseat for a while.
Just recently, my mother bought a majestic, black Kawai piano. I? ll sit at the piano and look into the keys, but now I see the face of a teenager plagued by natural teenage problems who needs a release every once in a while. Music, for me, is sometimes magical, and always mystical. I play the piano now to forget about those things I once dweller on, girls, homework, and the rigors of life. I credit that small, grayish?
E-Z Play Casio Keyboard? with opening my eyes to the beauty of music. Anything of beauty truly is a joy forever. I hope that one day, when I am old and gray-haired, my grandson will look at my face, youthful at the foundation but worn by time, and say tome, ? Play me a song, Mr. Piano Man. ?
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