By Karin Madorin
My mother’s family of four children grew up as teacher’s kids in Southwest Kansas during the hard years of The Great Depression. In those days, educators received salaries only during the months they taught, and that small paycheck didn’t cover summer bills. To supplement their budget, Grandma boarded teachers, providing rooms and meals. During off-months, Grandpa worked for area farmers for a dollar a day. Because she wanted her kids to play the piano, Grandma labored extra hours doing teachers’ and community members’ laundry and ironing to fund music lessons.
While Mom’s skills impressed me, her sisters played hymns in church on Sunday throughout their lives. During family visits to Grandma’s, I’d run fingers across those keys my mom and her siblings learned on and wish I too could produce more than a racket. However, our family moved OFTEN and couldn’t lug a piano along. In addition, my dad often worked midnight tower, which meant him sleeping days. Me practicing a noisy, new skill didn’t fit our family dynamic.
My longing to make music inspired the grown up me to squeeze a 1950s console into our dining room and sign up for lessons from a patient teacher. To my distress, I did not produce pretty music. Trying to fit in practice while teaching and coaching, taking college classes for a Master’s Degree, wrangling toddlers, feeding family, and keeping house led to frustration. After two years of moaning and groaning, I gave up that dream. Despite my disappointment, those lessons instilled greater appreciation for those who play well.
Apparently, few people my age became accomplished musicians regardless of whether they moved frequently or stayed in one place. When other activities competed with developing competent skills, music took the back seat. Nowadays, I see the results in area churches.
Decades ago, Sunday services included a pianist and organist with substitutes who filled in when regulars couldn’t play. Presently, some congregations don’t have a pianist or organist, so they rely on technology to provide contemporary praise music. Traditional lyrics and tunes folks learned sitting in the laps of parents and grandparents fall by the wayside.
Fortunate congregations still have at least one pianist who plays traditional hymns as well as praise songs. Some celebrate enough talent they can assemble a keyboardist, guitarist, and drummer. If they’re really lucky, their instrumentalists play both newer and traditional tunes. Interestingly, when congregations sing traditional hymns, it seems participants sing louder. I’d guess hymns linking singers to memories of loved ones invigorate their voices.
Two sisters around my age who grew up playing piano bless a local congregation with music each Sunday. The pair switches easily from traditional hymns to praise songs, occasionally tossing in a riff that demonstrates serious mastery of ivory and ebony. Their loving banter offers a peek at the joy music provided them as they grew up. Their repartee reminds me of listening to my mother and her sisters discuss music.
As a music lover, I value families producing the next generation of instrumentalists willing to play publicly, a cultural glue that unites family and community. Grandma would say it was worth every bit of extra laundry she scrubbed to make sure her kids played piano. I agree.