d te ain o greet troductions, I played scales from tones from triggered poing scores t I knew by . A voice in my ig, ig—more passion, more feeling.

    quot;You said ;

    quot;; my mot;I dont t;

    quot;tural.quot;

    For fun, I plinked out quot;ttle Star,quot; t for my sisters. I o use only one finger, as if t a toy.

    quot;aug,quot; Mom said. quot;On a tiny piano t you migra. And oo, sing like a bird.quot;

    Dad s me a quick sideoo busy sizing up my motin did not notice ttled on about all of my talents, but nobody listened. In measures too slo, I practiced my C even old Martin did not dis-cover the melody.

    quot;Mr. Day, Mrs. Day, I agree to take on your son. My minimum require-ment,   a time, ednesday afternoons and Saturdays. I can teac; tioned, in a voice barely above a ohe window.

    quot;But for your sonquot;—;for uition, but you must commit to sixteen ;

    I picked out a rudimentary quot;; My fatapped me on ting o leave. o Mom and grabbed ly by t of he elbow.

    quot;Ill call you Monday,quot; ;at ty. ell t over.quot;

    Mr. Martin bo;

    As tered incessantly, dreaming ture, planning our lives. Billy, rated on thing.

    quot;Ill buy some laying s ed to turn our place back into a real farm? Ill start a brood of c oo. And ake to treetcar, and treetcar into toreetcar Saturdays?quot;

    quot;I could do co earn t;

    quot;You see, Billy, s to learn? , t Mr. Martin said. And  piano?  s every day.quot;

    My f