Food For Thought...

At the prodding of my friends, I am writing this story. My name isMildred Hondorf. I am a former elementary school music teacher from
Des Moines, Iowa. I've always supplemented my income by teaching piano
lessons-something I've done for over 30 years.

Over the years I found that children have many levels of musical
ability. I've never had the pleasure of having a prodigy though I have
taught some talented students. However I've also had my share of what
I call "musically challenged" pupils. One such student was Robby.

Robby was 11 years old when his mother (a single mom) dropped him offfor his first piano lesson. I prefer that students (especially boys!)begin at an earlier age, which I explained to Robby. But Robby said
that it had always been his mother's dream to hear him play the piano.

So I took him as a student. Well, Robby began with his piano lessons
and from the beginning I thought it was a hopeless endeavor. As muchas Robby tried, he lacked the sense of tone and basic rhythm needed toexcel. But he dutifully reviewed his scales and some elementary pieces
that I require all my students to learn.

Over the months he tried and tried while I listened and cringed and
tried to encourage him. At the end of each weekly lesson he'd always
say, "My mom's going to hear me play some day." But it seemed
hopeless. He just did not have any inborn ability. I only knew his
mother from a distance as she dropped Robby off or waited in her aged
car to pick him up. She always waved and smiled but never stopped in.

Then one day Robby stopped coming to our lessons. I thought about
calling him but assumed because of his lack of ability, that he had
decided to pursue something else. I also was glad that he stopped
coming. He was a bad advertisement for my teaching!

Several weeks later I mailed to the student's homes a flyer on the
upcoming recital. To my surprise Robby (who received a flyer) asked me
if he could be in the recital. I told him that the recital was for
current pupils and because he had dropped out he really did notqualify. He said that his mother had been sick and unable to take him
to piano lessons but he was still practicing. "Miss Hondorf .... I've
just got to play!" he insisted. I don't know what led me to allow him
to play in the recital. Maybe it was his persistence or maybe it was
something inside of me saying that it would be all right.

The night for the recital came. The high school gymnasium was packed
with parents, friends and relatives. I put Robby up last in the
program before I was to come up and thank all the students and play a
finishing piece. I thought that any damage he would do would come at
the end of the program and I could always salvage his poor performance
through my "curtain closer."

Well the recital went off without a hitch. The students had been
practicing and it showed. Then Robby came up on stage. His clothes
were wrinkled and his hair looked like he'd run an egg-beater through
it. "Why didn't he dress up like the other students?" I thought. "Why
didn't his mother at least make him comb his hair for this specialnight?"

Robby pulled out the piano bench and he began. I was surprised when he
announced that he had chosen Mozart's Concerto #21 in C Major. I was
not prepared for what I heard next. His fingers were light on the
keys, they even danced nimbly on the ivories. He went from pianissimoto fortissimo...from allegro to virtuoso. His suspended chords that
Mozart demands were magnificent! Never had I heard Mozart played so
well by people of his age.

After six and a half minutes he ended in a grand crescendo and
everyone was on their feet in wild applause. Overcome and in tears I
ran up on stage and put my arms around Robby in joy. "I've never heard
you play like that Robby! How'd you do it? " Through the microphoneRobby explained: "Well Miss Hondorf, remember I told you my mom was
sick? Well, actually she had cancer and passed away this morning. And
well, she was born deaf so tonight was the first time she ever heard
me play. I wanted to make it special."

There wasn't a dry eye in the house that evening. As the people from
Social Services led Robby from the stage to be placed into fostercare, I noticed that even their eyes were red and puffy and I thought
to myself how much richer my life had been for taking Robby as my
pupil.

No, I've never had a prodigy but that night I became a prodigy, of
Robby's. He was the teacher and I was the pupil. For it is he who
taught me the meaning of perseverance and love and believing in
yourself and maybe even taking a chance in someone and you don't know
why.

Robby was killed in the senseless bombing of the Alfred P. Murrah
Federal Building in Oklahoma City in April of 1995.