Music Lessons

I was going to be late – again. Dadgumit! I slapped at the alarm clock so it would shut up. Just about that time, I heard mom yell down the hall, “Molly, girl? You better get up. You have less than an hour before Mr. Harvey picks you up.” 

Sighing, I push my warm covers off as I swing my legs around to hang off the edge of the bed. How could it be time to get up? It felt as though I had just gone to sleep.

Trudging to the bathroom, I contemplate my day ahead. Another fun-filled day in eighth grade at Mason Academy. I have a science test and even though science is not my favorite subject, I am prepared. What I am not prepared for is another weird ride to school with Mr. Harvey.

Mr. Harvey Wilmot is the Vice Principal at Mason Academy. His family has known my family for years, and I think we may be related. Everyone in Mason is related in some fashion.

Mr. Harvey lives up the road from us and since I hate riding the bus, my mom arranged for me to ride with him. Neither proposition is optimal, but it is better riding with a stuffy old guy than dealing with bullies on the bus. 

He is tall, very thin, and wears bowties, wire-rimmed glasses and slicks what little hair he has back. He reminds me of Dagwood from The Blondie comics without hair. I suppose he looks like an Vice Principal in 1979. Or 1969. Okay, more like 1959.

A few minutes later I give my unruly hair one more brush for all the good it does. By lunch it will be standing on end and in a ponytail holder. I grab my bookbag on the way out the screened door just as Mr. Harvey pulls up. He drives a two-door Chrysler Newport. The doors are so heavy you really must give it a good pull for it to shut properly. It is always meticulously clean, inside, and out.

“Good morning, Molly.” He said as I climb in giving the door my best effort. On the first attempt I manage to get it shut. 

“Morning, Mr. Harvey.” I replied settling into my seat. He just sat there looking at me. This is my cue that he will not drive until I have my seat belt fastened. I pull it across me and hear it click.

As we start out of the driveway onto the highway, he turns up the radio. Another cue he is not much for conversing today. He plays nothing but old classical music. Sometimes in the afternoon, he will let me choose the station. I am always anxious to tune-in to the station in nearby Hatfield. They play all the cool rock music which is far better than old stuffy classical music. This treat does not happen often because obviously, Mr. Harvey isn’t into “cool” music, only screechy boring classical. He really isn’t cool in any way, but he is nice. Again, better than dealing with idgits on the bus.

What I could not comprehend at the moment was that I would become grateful for the gift he gave me later in life. But for the moment, as an eighth grader who feels she knows good music better, it is a total drag. Many mornings he likes to go into lecture mode and explain the composer and give all sorts of details. From Beethoven, Mozart, Bach, Debussy, he covers them all. I suspect this is just an easy way for him to pass the twenty minute ride to school with as little pain as possible. I cannot imagine he is overly thrilled to be riding with an eighth-grader five days a week. 

My first music lessons came from my siblings. They were older and were already in love with the Beatles and all the greats from the 60s and 70s. I was christened with the music of the Beatles, Led Zeppelin, Crosby, Stills & Nash (and then Young), Joni Mitchell, Carole King, Lynyrd Skynyrd, The Eagles, and on and on. I would be far above my peers musically because of this.

I could sing all the songs from Carole King’s Tapestry album by the time I was eight. This drove my sister Jena crazy when I’d horn in on her time with friends to “perform.” So, you can see my dilemma of listening to classical music every morning. B.O.R.I.N.G. As far as I was concerned, my mind was made up that rock and roll was the ticket. Hip siblings will always trump Vice Principal.

It just so happened that at this same time in my life I was taking weekly piano lessons with Ms. Hettie McDonald. She was this eccentric woman who lived in a big creepy house that was never very clean. Even my mother would look twice before she sat down in a chair as she waited for me in the waiting room sans living room. Ms. Hettie’s hair was always wild. It never looked as though it saw a brush or comb, and she wore glasses on a chain around her neck. When she was frustrated with you, she would slap the glasses onto her chest.

Her husband, Willard, was a science teacher at the local high school. He kept embalmed snakes and frogs in pickle jars upstairs. Their two bratty kids would scare us by bringing the jars down while we were waiting for our turn. I can still see the icky green hue of the formaldehyde with the poor creature floating. Eeeoow! I was thankful he did not teach at Mason Academy.

Not long after I started riding with Mr. Harvey, I begin to recognize that some of the music Ms. Hettie is teaching me is songs I had heard on the radio. I love the piano but hate practicing because I have small hands and short fingers. My best friend, Nina, has these long, beautiful fingers that could stretch a whole octave. I am so jealous; she can play anything! So classical pieces are particularly tough for me. BUT I did get a huge smile from Ms. Hettie when I told her I had heard a certain piece of music from riding with Mr. Harvey. Anything to keep her from wrapping the piano with her ruler if you missed a note.

I only rode with Mr. Harvey for my eighth-grade year. Due to more and more obligations he had to stay over late after school and mother wanted me home in time for homework and supper. That was fine by me. I never knew what to say to him anyway.

Just by accident, I did discover his favorite music was country. I asked him why we didn’t listen to that instead?

“Oh well, um, there are songs that are not appropriate listening material for young ladies, Molly.” 

You’d think with my over-active curiosity I would have immediately turned the radio dial to the local country station in Mason, but I never did.

The first time I heard Fleetwood Mac’s, “Rumors” the summer of 1977, I was hooked. Listening to Stevie Nicks singing, “Dreams” unlocked creative juices from somewhere deep inside. I was obsessed with learning all her parts. In fact, I wanted to BE Stevie Nicks. I loved everything about her. Her gypsy persona was just what a budding performer was looking for. I would use sheer window curtains from the linen closet and wrap myself in them as I sang along. To my chagrin, I was never able to pull off the gypsy look, even as an adult.

It drove my mom crazy. “Molly, what are you doing?” she asked standing in my bedroom door.

“I am practicing being a gypsy goddess like Stevie.” I would respond while holding my hairbrush as a microphone.

“Well, I have no idea who Stevie is or why she wraps herself in curtains. But if you don’t fold and put away those curtains I spent two hours pressing, the only god figure you’re going to see is the Lord Jesus.” 

“Ma…..I need to practice! Where is your sense of creativity?” I whined.

She then gave me the LOOK which meant I needed to shut up and fold my gypsy outfit immediately. 

The ninth grade was the pits. Mom had taken a job in town and was able to drop me off in the mornings, but I was back on the bus for the ride home. As previously mentioned, I absolutely HATED riding the bus. I had been driving the country roads since I was thirteen. I didn’t see why I couldn’t just drive myself but there was this minor problem of driving without a driver’s license. Whatever.

After a year of hearing me cry and complain, mother was able to garner a ride with yet another teacher! How can this even be possible in one universe? This time it was my tenth-grade chemistry teach, Mrs. Twigg. If I didn’t know what to say to Mr. Harvey, I was terrified of Mrs. Twigg. She was one of these no-nonsense teachers that made even the worse kid cower. What in the world would we even talk about? I was not even that interested in chemistry and barely able to keep a B average in her class. Even though she was much younger than Mr. Harvey, she was still an adult, and all adults were weird.

What a delight to find that she loved music, too. Our first week riding together she asked what musicians I liked. I was pleased as punch to find that she liked many of the same ones. No classical music anywhere! However, her absolute favorite was Neil Diamond. I had heard a few of his songs but was not much of a fan. He just was not hip enough to my fourteen year-old mind.

She decided it was her obligation to teach me the whole Neil Diamond catalog. He wasn’t Robert Plant by any stretch, but I did soon find myself singing along. She picked up that I loved to sing and would ask me to sing along with Neil. This appealed to my desire to “perform” so I happily acquiesced. 

It wasn’t long before she was harmonizing with me and Neil. I remember there were a couple times as we’d pull up in the school parking lot that we would finish the song before getting out. One of our favorites was “Sooliamon.” It had this Caribbean vibe but then would break into a harder edge bridge.

Soo, Soolaimon
Soolai, soolai, Soolaimon
Soo, Soolaimon
Soolai, soolai, Soolaimon
Soo, Soolaimon
Soolai, soolai, Soolaimon

Hey, God of my want, want, want
Lord of my need, need, need
Leading me on, on, on
On to the woman, she dance for the sun
God of my day, day, day
Lord of my night, night, night
Seek for the way, way, way
Taking me home

Man, it was awesome! We’d laugh and clap after; Mrs. Twigg was the coolest! Then she’d look over at me and say, “Well, Molly, I need to put on my teacher face, so I’ll see you in class.”

“Sure, Mrs. Twigg. Can we hear “Sooliamon” again this afternoon?”

“Oh, absolutely!” She smiled back. “After that sixth period bunch, I’ll need something to calm my nerves.”

I started noticing some of the other kids watch our exchange. For a time, I felt my street cred rise as everyone sensed that my relationship was different than theirs. She never treated me any differently or acted as though we were singing buddies during school time. Even so, I still enjoyed the perception of having an “in” with Mrs. Twigg. I even learned to enjoy chemistry and ended up with an A average.

By the eleventh grade, I was riding with my friend Charlene. She was a senior, chained smoked Doral cigarettes and had a car full of great music. I thought Charlene was the bees’ knees. 

Disco had entered our musical world and I discovered the voice of Donna Summer. Oh, how I loved to love her, baby. Blaring “Bad Girls” Charlene would squeal her small, sporty Toyota into the parking lot. The music was so loud, anyone standing nearby could hear it before she ever cut the motor. Even though her friends paid no attention to my lowly eleventh grade self, I still acted as though I was in the click. 

My senior year, I finally had my own car. Yes! A 1970 Ford LTD four-door. Mother had gotten a big green Chevy, so I got the use of the second car. It only had a radio, so I worked and saved up money from an after-school job to buy my first cassette deck. I worked at a small cake bakery in Mason which was fun. I learned how to decorate cakes. It wasn’t extremely helpful with my weight problem, but it sure was tasty! 

Once my new cassette deck was installed, I rounded up the trinity of the early 80s. Madonna, Prince, and Michael Jackson. I loved having total control of what was played on my own personal ride to school.

As an adult now making a living songwriting in Nashville, I am grateful for all the experiences of music early in life. I finally gave up the keys for the strings. Fits my short hands much better. Less farther to reach the frets than those high octaves. 

My first writer’s round at The Blue Bird Cafe, I played an opening of Debussy’s “Claire de Lune.” I dedicated it to Mr. Harvey Wilmot and Mrs. Hettie McDonald. Naturally, I finally got to hear that country music Mr. Harvey felt I need not hear. Drinking, cheating, and trucks. 

If you ever visit Music City, visit lower Broadway and you can hear songs just like that. The cool thing is that a short walk up the street you can also hear great symphonies at the Schermerhorn Symphony Hall. That’s the beauty of music though. You can always find something that appeals to your heart and soul. 

Mr. Harvey is still alive, well into his eighties. I wonder if he still enjoys country music? I must admit, I do have a hard time thinking of Mr. Harvey tapping along to Hank Sr.’s’ “Your Cheating Heart.” It’s the bowtie.