4.Puddle

I must be very naive when I assume that with all the new piano lessons and classes that I attend several times a week,  I won’t have to keep seeing professor Michaels on Saturdays anymore. Oh, silly, silly me! 

“You are not average and not like the other ‘stupid’ kids, Jarka, you need to have more lessons and you need more practice so you can be better than them. You have to be the best and YOU WILL be the best. I am doing this all for you! I am sacrificing so much for you. We have to keep going on Saturdays. Now stop asking me about it!”

So I resign myself to early morning wake ups and miserable bus and train rides on Saturdays because once again, I have no choice. To make things easier in my mind, I split the Saturday trips into 8, more manageable parts:

1. Walk to the local bus stop

2. Bus ride to the train station

3. Train Ride

4. Walk to the professor’s apartment

5. Walk from the professor’s apartment to the long distance bus station (after lesson)

6. Yucky long distance bus ride home

7. Another local bus ride

8. Walk home

Every Saturday, I go through all of these numbers mentally one by one and repeat to them myself over and over throughout the trip. “Ok, number 1 down, 7 more to go….2 done 6 to go….”phew, ok, getting there! Almost half way there!” By the time I get to number 5, I know I can make it, even though number 6 is the hardest one of them all. In a strange way, this works for me unless…..

I am about 8 years old and at this point I’ve been taking Saturday lessons for about 3 years. Winter months are painful for me because I don’t tolerate the dark and freezing cold very well. And come on, it’s always cold in Slovakia!

It’s yet another early Saturday morning and we are rushing to the bus stop. Little snow flurries are lazily flying in the air. It rained the day before and there are numerous puddles on the sidewalks and on the roads. They are frozen over with ice as the temperatures are right below freezing. I am trying very hard to keep up with my father’s large steps and I am not looking where I am going. Next thing I know, my foot breaks through a thin layer of ice and I find myself splattered in a big deep puddle of icy water. For a second I am trying to understand what just happened and I am startled, catching my breath. My father’s grip on my hand is still strong and I am hanging off of him like a monkey. A soaked monkey. He is forced to stop and then he slowly gets me out of the water, pulling me out by my poor arm. I am drenched, my jeans are dripping wet. I am instantly trembling, overwhelmed by the cold air that seems even more frigid now. My jeans are clinging to the skin on my legs and they feel like they weigh extra 100 pounds on me. There is water in my boots, I suppose they are not waterproof. 

“Ugh ok, let’s go,” my father exclaims, the familiar look of stress and annoyance on his face. “D-d-dad, p-p-pplease!” my teeth are chattering.  We are still close enough to the apartment to turn around and go home to change. But we would probably miss the bus, which in turn would make us miss the train, which would make us miss my piano lesson. “But daddy, I am cold! Can we go home? Pleeeeesase!” He stares at me, shaking his head, “You absolutely can’t miss your piano lesson. You can change afterwards when we get home. It’s not even that cold. Let’s go! We are late!” He starts walking away. Leaving me behind. I run after him,”Wait, wait for me!” I still drag my huge music bag behind me but now I am uncontrollably trembling, shaking in my wet pants. Every step I make I hear the “slosh slosh” noise from my boots. My feet and toes are starting to get numb. I am only on part 1 of today’s trip, how will I make it through 7 more? 

I am seized by the trembles and shivers, shaking all the way to the bus, to the train, to Mr. Michael’s place, and then again all the way back home. I am grateful for the warmth of Mr. Michael’s apartment and for the heated train. I feel like my body is growing icicles and there is a snotsicle under my nose too. When I finally get home, exhausted and drained, I can’t feel my skin anymore. It’s as if all of the feeling and sensation disappeared from the surface of my body. I don’t know what’s hot or cold anymore. I peel my pants off and my legs are red, almost purple. My skin is raw on the outside but I feel even more raw and frozen on the inside. 

I don’t understand why piano is the most important thing in the world and how it is more important than me. I don’t understand why it tortures me like this and why I have to suffer for the privilege to have it in my life. I try to rationalize it in my 8-year old mind. My dad must be right. I must trust him because he knows what’s best for me.