A moment of silence
A beloved mentor from my childhood has passed on: Mary Evelyn Golz She lived her life well.
I've often thought of Mrs. Golz in the years since I moved away from my hometown. I had near weekly lessons from her from the age of 7 til I was 16. She and her husband lived in this big old dilapidated victorian house about two miles from my house. In addition to the front public staircase, a supercool back staircase spiraled up from the kitchen. Sometimes in winter or late at night my pickup would forget about me and I'd have to call home using the quaint old rotary phone. I can still remember the very distinct odor of their home, and more than once she would kindly offer to feed me dinner. A rare treat came when she and her husband were off traveling in Europe. In exchange for housesitting services, I was allowed to play the special second Steinway... the one that was Not Used For Lessons.
I remember hiking up to her house on hot afternoons, stopping to sit on the curb halfway up to her house, frantically finishing those theory homework problems that I'd procrastinated all week on. Then, the walk back downhill in the warm dusky twilight, collecting black fuzzy caterpillars from the fragrant weeds to try to keep as pets in a dixie cup. Once or twice I even remember commuting by horse. Some years I had morning lessons before school, other times evenings in the dark of winter. But this weekly ritual was one thread of continuity throughout my entire childhood.
All 5 of us kids ended up taking lessons from her, but I think I went to her for the longest. We would always whisper and snigger over how thoroughly old and wrinkled and ancient she was, staring in fascinated childlike horror at the various oldlady long wiry hairs sprouting from her face or her arms. But damn, she taught piano well. The yearly theory exams were never much of a concern. Beyond the technical aspects of it, she would hold practice recitals at home where we would practice our professional poise. Showing up to public recitals as part of Team Golz, one could clearly observe how other students had been deprived of such thorough training. Learning one piece a year for the Bach Festival was an annual ritual that I used to despise, but came to love once I became skilled enough to play the fun ones.
Oh, and how could I forget about the Suicide Bird. The large parlor where she held lessons had a big picture window facing the wildly overgrown yard. This one particular bird would perch on the tree outside, see his reflection in the window, fly smack into the glass with a sick little thud, and then plummet straight down to the ground. After a few minutes, he'd wake up and flutter back up to the twig, and do the whole thing over again. Over and over again. We would always get a good laugh about the poor twit, but then she would have me practice playing through my piece undistracted by the repeated self-battering efforts of this idiot creature. This went on for months, possibly over several years if I'm remembering right.
This is the first time I've actually felt grief over a person's death. And it's not because I haven't known people (relatives, even) who died. There simply aren't that many people from my young life of whom I actually hold fond and loving memories, which kinda says something. She was too gracious to ever say as much, but in retrospect I know that she must have been aware of how emotionally trodden down I was as a child. She always took special care to show me kindness.
I have no doubt that she touched the lives of many others at least as profoundly as she touched mine.
I've often thought of Mrs. Golz in the years since I moved away from my hometown. I had near weekly lessons from her from the age of 7 til I was 16. She and her husband lived in this big old dilapidated victorian house about two miles from my house. In addition to the front public staircase, a supercool back staircase spiraled up from the kitchen. Sometimes in winter or late at night my pickup would forget about me and I'd have to call home using the quaint old rotary phone. I can still remember the very distinct odor of their home, and more than once she would kindly offer to feed me dinner. A rare treat came when she and her husband were off traveling in Europe. In exchange for housesitting services, I was allowed to play the special second Steinway... the one that was Not Used For Lessons.
I remember hiking up to her house on hot afternoons, stopping to sit on the curb halfway up to her house, frantically finishing those theory homework problems that I'd procrastinated all week on. Then, the walk back downhill in the warm dusky twilight, collecting black fuzzy caterpillars from the fragrant weeds to try to keep as pets in a dixie cup. Once or twice I even remember commuting by horse. Some years I had morning lessons before school, other times evenings in the dark of winter. But this weekly ritual was one thread of continuity throughout my entire childhood.
All 5 of us kids ended up taking lessons from her, but I think I went to her for the longest. We would always whisper and snigger over how thoroughly old and wrinkled and ancient she was, staring in fascinated childlike horror at the various oldlady long wiry hairs sprouting from her face or her arms. But damn, she taught piano well. The yearly theory exams were never much of a concern. Beyond the technical aspects of it, she would hold practice recitals at home where we would practice our professional poise. Showing up to public recitals as part of Team Golz, one could clearly observe how other students had been deprived of such thorough training. Learning one piece a year for the Bach Festival was an annual ritual that I used to despise, but came to love once I became skilled enough to play the fun ones.
Oh, and how could I forget about the Suicide Bird. The large parlor where she held lessons had a big picture window facing the wildly overgrown yard. This one particular bird would perch on the tree outside, see his reflection in the window, fly smack into the glass with a sick little thud, and then plummet straight down to the ground. After a few minutes, he'd wake up and flutter back up to the twig, and do the whole thing over again. Over and over again. We would always get a good laugh about the poor twit, but then she would have me practice playing through my piece undistracted by the repeated self-battering efforts of this idiot creature. This went on for months, possibly over several years if I'm remembering right.
This is the first time I've actually felt grief over a person's death. And it's not because I haven't known people (relatives, even) who died. There simply aren't that many people from my young life of whom I actually hold fond and loving memories, which kinda says something. She was too gracious to ever say as much, but in retrospect I know that she must have been aware of how emotionally trodden down I was as a child. She always took special care to show me kindness.
I have no doubt that she touched the lives of many others at least as profoundly as she touched mine.