When I was a little girl, I remember sitting on our hard, brown wooden piano bench, feet dangling, almost touching the floor, fingers stretching to play the required chords and melody.  I recall my early Harmony Road music lessons were regimented, full of tempo, but stoic in a way.  I enjoyed the rhythm of the music and the flow of the notes strung together, but that’s not what I heard when I played.

As I grew, my music grew as well.  Those notes that used to be barely strung together, that pounded out across my piano keyboard, now began to flow and meld into a melody I could enjoy.  But still, songs were short, and regimented, and required.  Practice was required, but only enjoyed for a little while.

Finally, once I graduated from the primary grade curriculum, choice arrived.  We began to play longer songs with emotion and feeling.  This was the first year I was introduced to jazz, and I loved it.  I could not play it well, and I recall my hands struggling to reach the next note as quickly as possible as I yearned to hear the swaying melody and beat.  Daily, I looked forward to sitting on my hard wooden bench, feet now touching the ground, pounding out the new jazz beat and swaying to the rhythm.

The more I worked, the faster my fingers flew.  I loved the changing melody- the addictive beat rocked my body and I wanted to play more and more.  I loved to perform for my family, showing them each new piece I had learned.  I still yearned to play the sounds of more advanced pieces than my mind and fingers could move.  For a year I tried and grew and played- played my jazz and smiled and swayed to the beat.

Then I graduated from Harmony Road Music School and moved to a private instructor, and my jazz moved on, too.  Required scales and classical music crept back into my life, and my joyful swaying slowly faded away.  Sometimes, I would still play my youthful jazz tunes at home, instead of practicing my new musical conquests.  I missed jazz.  I missed the joy.  I missed the sound and the beat running through my fingers and arms.

My memories of jazz have slowly, sadly faded over the years, and I no longer play piano.  It doesn’t seem fun anymore, unless the music is fun, and my time is taken up with other things. And although my fingers have grown long and nimble, I no longer remember where to place them on the keys.  But every once in awhile, I will hear an old song, or my mom will recall a story from years ago, and I remember my jazz music, my happy swaying jazz music, and I smile.