an about piano lessons.

    e left toddlers  up front in my fat spring morning in our Sun-day clot too sc to Mass, and onto to ty. S as ions. e  faster t been to ty in nearly one o like an old friend, one  beador stared at us from teering o follow us.

    On our approaco ty, tories on tskirts appeared first, great smokestacks exreams of dark clouds, furnaces s of fire. A bend in t once, a vieretco oer it loomed, until suddenly reets. t a cross street, a trol-ley scraped along, its pole sing sparks to ts doors opened like a bello poured a cros and s; tood on a concrete island in treet, ing for t to cment store ions of sraffic cops mingled s on man-nequins, ly still.

    quot;I dont knoo like coming into ty. Ill never find parking.quot;

    Moms rig out. quot;t ;

    Riding up in tor, my fat pocket for a Camel, and as t up. e es early, and o go in, I o tered. Mr. Martin may not  all and te , . Copo gen-teel seed. Beood t beautiful maco a ality of tos propped-open lid. ty ty of every beautiful sound. I oo dumbstruck to ansime.

    quot;May I ;

    quot;Im o learn everyt;

    quot;My dear young man,quot; ;Im afraid ts impossi-ble.quot;

    I o t at t of tant memory of a stern German instructor ordering me to in-crease tempo. I stretc as possible, testing my span, and laid t eliciting an accidental tone. Mr. Martin glided beudying my ;;

    quot;Once upon a time ...quot;

    quot;Find me middle C, Mr. Day.quot;

    And  t thumb.

    My motere