Just A Gal From Glidden: Confessions of a reluctant pianist

By Kate Winquist

This may come as a surprise to some of you — I very much enjoy listening to classical music.

I know. I know.

A few weeks ago I confessed my fondness for ’70s heavy metal and admitted to blasting AC/DC much to my mother’s chagrin. But these days, when my squirrelly ADHD personality is threatening to derail productivity, I dive into Apple Music and search for something calm and classical so I can actually get some work done.

As I type this, I’m listening to “Partita No. 2 for Violin in D Minor” by Johann Sebastian Bach, performed by Hilary Hahn. It is very soothing. Very grown up. Very un-AC/DC.

While I do enjoy the violin, my favourite classical instrument is the piano — which is ironic, considering I took piano lessons for several years as a child and was, quite possibly, a questionable return on investment for my parents.

I learned from Mame McConnell, just like my older siblings. Unlike my sisters — who were actually talented — I never quite embraced it. Royal Conservatory exams held zero appeal for me. I preferred modern pieces. In fact, if Mrs. McConnell assigned something contemporary, I would occasionally pretend I hadn’t practised it.

Why?

Because I didn’t want her to discover that I actually could play the classical pieces if I tried.

Yes. You read that correctly. I faked incompetence to avoid expectations.

What a brat.

My sisters, on the other hand, were gifted. They still play. One of my favourite memories is listening to them perform duets — most recently at Mom’s 80th birthday in 2016, which doesn’t feel that long ago until you realize it absolutely is. Where does the time go?

For a while, we had two pianos at the farm. One was a player piano inherited after Grandma Drummond passed away in 1980. I can still picture loading the paper roll and watching the keys move all by themselves. It felt like magic.

Mom somehow tracked down rolls with actual songs we recognized — “When I’m Sixty-Four” by The Beatles, “Those Were the Days.” But my favourites were the ragtime pieces: “That’s a Plenty,” “The Entertainer,” “The Easy Winners.”

There is something about ragtime that makes you sit up straighter.

Now, you might think that two teenage girls left alone on the farm for an entire weekend — while their parents were off at a bridge tournament — would seize the opportunity to do something rebellious. Invite friends over. Go gallivanting off to Kindersley.

Not Carrie and I.

We spent the weekend teaching ourselves a ragtime duet by memorizing the notes from the player piano roll. I believe it was the culinary classic “Pineapple Rag” by Scott Joplin.

I am certain it was Carrie’s musical genius that figured out who played what. I mostly contributed enthusiasm and a willingness to keep starting over.

When Mom and Dad returned home, we proudly performed our recital piece. They were suitably impressed.

There were no cell phones back then, so we have absolutely no proof this happened.

You’ll just have to take my word for it.

Two Christmases ago, I bought an electric keyboard for our son. At present, it resides in the basement, living a quiet life and collecting a respectable layer of dust. But perhaps one day I’ll sit down and attempt to tinkle the ivories like Billy Joel or Frank Mills.

Until then, I’ll continue to admire those who truly can play — and enjoy my classical playlists in the background while I pretend I always meant to appreciate Bach this much.

Some of us just take the scenic route to refinement.