I started piano lessons when I was seven. I had started on the farm, trying to read the notes from my mother’s Clementi book full of sonatinas. She would play Opus 36, Number 5, in particular and it was this one that I taught myself.
Thus, when we moved to the city, my parents indulged in another piano – one that had candlestick holders that were hinged on the front, upper panel of the piano and folded outward for use. The black keys rounded into perfectly marbled ivories.
Then my parents went to another city, what the northerners call, the Big City, and saw a piano in a store down there. They had to have that one. They hired movers to tote the piano from there to our home. I had to say goodbye to the rounded blacks and hello to a piano who had a lever to soften the sound.
At that time, my parents did not play the piano.