A good word
“You have a lovely neck.” Those are not typical words of affirmation for a preteen, self-avowed tomboy.
I opened my book of scales to begin our lesson. My piano teacher, Mrs. Dodge, leaned in closer to look at the scrape on my neck. Then she matter-of-factly counseled me on how to treat it so it wouldn’t leave a scar. “You have a lovely neck,” she said, in a kind, no-nonsense way. “You don’t want to mar it.”
I started on my scales, masking slight embarrassment at the compliment. I had a lovely neck? I had fast tennis shoes, I had a cool T-shirt with the word “Groovy” on the front. I had a strong desire to win recess games of keep-away. “A lovely neck” was not among personal attributes I counted.
But that was Mrs. Dodge. I don’t know what her age was when I took lessons from her. She had gray hair and a kind, direct gaze. When she spoke, you felt her full focus on your inmost being, even as a second-grader. I remained her pupil for 12 years. Though I only saw her once a week, her influence reaches into my sixth decade. She was that teacher.
She cautioned me not to chew gum. It was unladylike. She told me it was best to have separate shoes for working outside and inside, and showed me where she kept her garden shoes by the back door.
To get to my lessons, I walked across town from the elementary school. The day I arrived splattered with roadside slush from a passing vehicle, she was incensed. She asked me to describe the car so she could report the hooligan to the local police. When she learned that I’d been walking more-or-less in the street, making myself an easy target, she scolded me firmly. Young ladies walked on the sidewalk, not on the curb.
I could not take offense at her directives. They were so clearly leveled for my benefit. And they worked to temper that self-avowed tomboy thing.
She told me about her life. She spoke of her husband and how kind he’d been to her. About how they said goodbye before he went to work on the morning he passed away.
She told me about her anticipation for an upcoming trip to Spain. She brought back gifts for her students. I still have the tiny, flowered what-not dish on my dresser.
One day at my lesson, she showed me her glasses. A screw had come loose at the bow. I used a tiny screwdriver to tighten it, something her arthritis wouldn’t allow. “You have such deftness in your hands,” she said. “You could do anything in life that you choose.” I beamed inside. I could do anything.
When Carole King released “So Far Away” in 1971, I bought the sheet music. I played it at home, added jazzy embellishments, sang along like I was on the radio. Mrs. Dodge encouraged us to bring her the music we enjoyed. I took the piece to my next lesson. Played it with my freestyle interpretations. (No singing.)
When I finished, there was a slight pause. Then, with conviction, Mrs. Dodge pronounced: “Well, I love what you did with that.”
May I tell you, I still have that sheet music. I can still play those jazzy embellishments. How she did not burst out laughing that day, I have no idea. But she didn’t. Instead, she “loved what I did with that.” Me, with the lovely neck, the deft hands, and the penchant for chewing Juicy Fruit and walking on the curb.
It’s fair to say that I love Mrs. Dodge. She was a grand gal, to put it in words that seem most fitting. Her influence lingers with me, like a beautiful chord that resolves at the end of a song. The way she spoke to me expanded my aspirations. She was a giver, and she always had a good word.