I stepped out from the curtains, walked out onto the stage, sat on the left side of the piano bench, slid a bit to the right, and the gym, full of parents and kids, erupted in laughter.
What a way to open the performance of our trio! My little sisters, Sue and Mary, had gone before me to the piano, and were already seated as I arrived. In situating myself as I did, I pushed Sue, who shifted toward Mary, who fell right off the bench’s right edge. We never rehearsed getting on the bench!
Shaken a bit, we readjusted and, as the laughter died down, got our butts in the right places, put our six hands on the keys, and played our piece, “Sweet Moments,” without a hitch, just as we had during the past few weeks of practice. Appreciative of the fact that we had endured our opening embarrassment and had then played through our number perfectly, the audience at St. Mary of Celle in Berwyn gave us a warm, extended ovation.
How many times in life does a moment become sweeter because it has been set up by some sort of mishap or unanticipated occurrence? The unexpected comedy act we opened with probably gave a sympathetic audience more reason to want us to succeed.
Being laughed at for a miscue we had never anticipated actually heightened our focus on playing the piece right. That was the best way to rescue our imperiled performance.
The message from the supportive audience was, “That was funny, but we’ve got you.” Our own confidence as siblings who’d worked hard together, plus our beloved piano teacher’s guidance, steadied us. We concentrated on delivering Sweet Moments, in six parts, from the first measure through the last.
Of course, it wasn’t just us creating those moments, laid out as they were years prior in the musical score itself. Certainly the moment was made possible by H.P. Hopkins, the score’s composer. And there was Mrs. Kral, coaching us over many weeks. Mom and Dad get some credit too for having listened to us patiently and praising us. We had gradually mastered the piece on our old upright. The crowd helped, too. It included many familiar kids and adults from the school, church and neighborhood.
They had all made the moment as we made the music.
Decades later in Ascension Catholic Church across Roosevelt Road on East Avenue in Oak Park, I found myself playing a piece I had composed, “A Moment in Mourning,” at my father-in-law’s funeral. I hadn’t become a performing pianist during those intervening years. I played at home on my own spinet — mostly show tunes, popular songs and a few of my own numbers.
But I offered to play at Paul’s service, Maureen’s dad, and she had accepted. We also sang for Paul in the choir during the funeral Mass.
As I walked to the grand piano sitting in front of the choir at the appointed time in the service, it hit me that I hadn’t done this in a long, long while. The church was quiet. I sat on the piano bench just in front of our music director, himself an accomplished musician. I was also in view of the choir, as well as the priest on the altar and people seated in the pews.
I positioned my hands to begin the A minor piece, struck the opening notes and then after a measure or two, my hands began to tremble. It was the awesome gravity of the moment. I had just seen Paul a few weeks prior; I sensed him in spirit now. I felt a power animating the whole scene in this space where I had sung and worshipped for many years.
I hadn’t expected that the trembling would turn into shaking as I moved through the number, but I had so internalized the music over many years of playing it privately that I got through it. And I had that sense, like long ago, that friends and family, this time seated in pews, were with me. Like my sisters and I at St. Mary’s years ago, I played without a hitch.
Every person experiences such moments at a service like this differently, depending in part on how well he or she knew the person being honored. For me, varied streams of memory made this moment sweeter.
Rich Kordesh is a longtime Oak Park resident who grew up in Berwyn.