Piano Teacher Blues

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My daughter Casey takes piano lessons from a wonderful woman who lives up the block.

Her name is Leah. She’s been teaching for years, and Casey truly loves her. Leah is probably in her 60s. She’s a magnificent musician who embraces classical music while having little use for anything popish. Even top-shelf musicians like Billy Joel and Elton John do little for her. Bach, Mozart … those are her guys. And rightly so.

I digress. I’m working from home today, researching the next book while listening to a non-stop stream of 1990s hip-hop blasting through the rooms. A bunch of hours ago, I stepped into the shower for a few minutes. Upon finishing, and wrapping a towel around my waist, I heard our dog Norma start to bark. Initially, I figured she was just acting loony. Then I turned down the music—Ice Cube’s “Check Yo Self” was blaring loudly—and spotted Leah walking away from the front door. She had dropped something off for Casey, and slipped it through the mail slot.

I can only imagine what she was thinking.