When I was growing up, bartering wasn’t some quaint, old-timey concept. It was just how folks did business. If you had something useful to trade, you might never see a single dollar exchanged. Lucky for us, my mother was a master seamstress. She could hem a dress, mend a rip, or stitch a zipper faster than most people could microwave popcorn (not that we had microwaves back then, but you get my drift). Because of Mama’s magical sewing machine, we never lacked for what we needed—although sometimes I wished the woman had been terrible with a needle.
Especially the year she bartered our childhood freedom away for piano lessons.
Mama struck a deal with a local piano teacher. In exchange for sewing clothes for the teacher’s family, my brother, sister, and I—were to learn how to make beautiful music. Mama imagined us lined up like the Von Trapp children, harmonizing and maybe even smiling. What Mama didn’t know was that our future held more terror than treble clefs.
The first day, we entered the piano teacher’s house with high hopes and low expectations. She greeted us with the enthusiastic warmth of a hostage negotiator. Her mouth was drawn in a tight line that said, “I do not play”. She pointed with her bony finger to a pair of chairs in the corner—our designated waiting area. That corner held exactly two things: hard wooden seats and a large aquarium full of fish with pointy teeth.
She informed us, very calmly, that those were piranhas.
I didn’t even know piranhas lived in Georgia. But I also wasn’t about to challenge a woman holding a ruler with calluses on her knuckles. She made it abundantly clear that silliness, fidgeting, or even excessive blinking would not be tolerated. One of us would sit on the piano bench while the other two waited. And by “waited,” I mean sat perfectly still… trying not to get eaten.
Our lesson began with scales. Not songs, not melodies—scales, over and over, forward and backward until our fingers tangled like spaghetti noodles. Each mistake was rewarded with a stinging tap! from her ruler as she barked, “Start again!”
If the student on the bench suffered, the two in the chairs suffered in silence. We were supposed to watch quietly, but every now and then she’d glare at us over her glasses and say, “Act up, and I’ll put your hand in the tank with my piranhas.”
You’ve never seen three children sit so still. We didn’t even breathe normally. I’m pretty sure oxygen was too risky.
Week after week, we practiced, tapped, trembled, and survived. Mama proudly stitched hems while the ivory keys claimed our childhood. But in spite of the ruler smacks and the fish-y threats, we actually did learn something. At the very least, I learned how far a mother will go to make sure her children get a “well-rounded education.”
And to this day, whenever I hear a piano, I don’t think of Mozart or Beethoven.
I think of a wooden ruler and a tank full of piranhas.
And if you’re wondering—no, none of us grew up to be musicians. We never played in a talent show, or even a church offertory. Our greatest piano achievement was surviving without losing a finger. But I must say, I can still play several of the songs I learned back then and yes, Heart and Soul is one of them.
Today, when I think about those lessons, I have to laugh. Mama believed she was investing in our future. In a way, she did. She taught us discipline, determination, and the importance of sitting very, very still if there’s even the slightest chance piranhas are involved.
And to this day, if someone offers me piano lessons, I kindly decline.
Unless they throw in a pair of earplugs and guarantee—in writing—that no aquatic wildlife will be harmed in the making of my musical education.
