HEARTLIGHT® Magazine: Just for Men: "My Mother Played the Piano"

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My Mother Played the Piano
by John William Smith

My mother played the piano. She played mostly by ear, I think, but she often looked at the notes too. She played “Red River Valley,” “When My Blue Moon Turns to Gold Again,” and “Mexicali Rose” — but mostly she played church songs. My dad was a member of a church-songbook club, of some sort, and they were always sending us a new songbook. My dad would sit in his chair for hours, singing, “Do-so-mi-do,” as he tried to learn all the songs in the new book.
My mother played them on the piano.
It seems, now, that she mostly played in the early- or mid-afternoon. During the summer months, I would approach our little white house, and through the open windows — with the white curtains moving with the breeze — I would hear her playing and singing.
“From this valley they say you are going.
We will miss your bright eyes and sweet smile.
For they say you are taking the sunshine
That has brightened our pathways awhile.

Come and sit by my side, if you love me.
Do no hasten to bid me adieu,
Just remember the Red River Valley
And the girl who has loved you so true.”
It was a very comforting, reassuring sound.
Sometimes when I came in to get a drink or some needed thing or to ask if I could go further than normal, she would say, “John, come here and sing this with me.” She didn’t say it like a command or an order or anything — not like when she said, “Go clean the chicken coop,” or “Go hoe the garden.” Those were orders. She would just say it like a request or like she would appreciate it as a favor.
I usually didn’t want to. I was afraid my friends would hear through the open windows — or, worse yet, that they would ask, “What took you so long?” And I would have to say, “I was singing some church songs with my mother,” and I could just imagine the looks they would give me — like my driveway didn’t go all the way to the street, or something.
I made every possible excuse I could. Of course, I didn’t just say “no.” You can’t do that with requests, you know; and besides, I didn’t say that word to my parents. The “N” word was the death word, and if I said it — even in fun — I would die.
I always knew that.
“Come on, John,” she would coax. “It will only take a minute.”
“Oh Mom,” I would say. “Oh, Mother” — the exasperation and disgust would absolutely drip from my voice — but I would go, dragging my reluctant feet.
She would be so enthusiastic. She would say, “Now I want you to sing this alto part for me.” I hated that because, even though I was small, I knew that alto
was a woman’s part.
“Why do I have to always sing alto? Why can’t I sing bass?”
“Because your voice hasn’t changed.”
“Why does my voice have to change? Did your voice change?
“No, my voice didn’t change, but yours will, and I don’t really have time to discuss this. Just sing alto because it sounds nicer with soprano.”
“But I want to know why my voice has to change? Did Dad’s voice change?”
“Yes, your father’s voice changed long before I knew him.”
“How do you know his voice changed if you weren’t there?”
“Because all men’s voices change.”
“Did Jary’s voice change?”
“No, women’s voices don’t change.”
“But that doesn’t seem fair. Why should boys’ voices change and not girls’?”
“Because that’s the way God made us, that’s why.”
“Oh. Why didn’t you just tell me that to begin with?”

“Isn’t that just the prettiest song you ever heard?”

And Mom would play the soprano part while she sang it, and then she would play the alto part and sing it. Then she would play the alto part while I sang it. Then she would play the chords, and I would sing alto while she sang soprano. You can’t imagine how excited she would be when we finished. “Isn’t that just the prettiest song you ever heard?” she would exclaim. If I thought it was something less than that —
I certainly kept it to myself.
I played my role halfheartedly at best. I had learned that the quickest way back outside was to learn my part as rapidly as possible, but sometimes I just couldn’t get into it and sang so poorly and was so sour faced and sullen that she would slowly close the book, pat me on the shoulder, and say, “You go on back to your friends, now. We’ll do this some other time.” She didn’t say it with anger — or even resentmen — and I don’t know how many times it happened before I noticed that when I went back outside, I didn’t hear the piano or singing any more that day.
It wouldn’t have cost me much — and it meant so much to her. I look back with regret and tears for my selfishness and insensitivity.
My mother played the piano and sang church songs. Sometimes now — even after all these years — when I can find a place where it is still and if I allow myself to be very quiet, in my mind I can see the old white house with the white curtains moving at the open windows; and through those open windows, I see those nimble fingers moving on the keys, and I hear her voice.
“There’s a land that is fairer than day,
And by faith we can see it afar;
For the Father waits over the way,
To prepare us a dwelling place there.
In the sweet by and by,
We shall meet on that beautiful shore.
In the sweet by and by,
We shall meet on that beautiful shore.”
— S. F. Bennett, “Sweet By and By”
“Come on, John,” she coaxes. “It will only take a minute. You sing alto — it goes like this — and I’ll sing soprano. Isn’t that the most beautiful song you ever heard?” And in my mind I say, “I’m coming, Mom,” and I rush to her with joy, because I know how happy it will make her.
And it is, you know,
the most beautiful song
I ever heard.

From the book My Mother Played the Piano, by John William Smith, Howard Publishing, 1997. Copyright Howard Publishing, used by permission.