Robby - A Beautiful True Story
At the prodding of my friends, I am writing this story. My name isMildred Hondorf. I am a former elementary school music teacher fromDes Moines, Iowa. I've always supplemented my income by teaching piano lessons-something I've done for over 30 years. Over the years I foundthat children have many levels of musical ability. I've never had thepleasure of having a prodigy though I have taught some talentedstudents.
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 hismother (a single Mom) dropped him off for his first piano lesson. Iprefer that students (especially boys!) begin at an earlier age, whichI explained to Robby.
But Robby said that it had always been his mother's dream to hear himplay the piano. So I took him as a student. Well, Robby began with hispiano lessons and from the beginning I thought it was a hopelessendeavor. As much as Robby tried, he lacked the sense of tone and basic rhythmneeded to excel. But he dutifully reviewed his scales and someelementary pieces that I require all my students to learn.
Over the months he tried and tried while I listened and cringed andtried to encourage him.. At the end of each weekly lesson he'd alwayssay, "My mom's going to hear me play someday." But it seemed hopeless.He just did not have any inborn ability. I only knew his mother from adistance as she dropped Robby off or waited in her aged car to pickhim 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 ofability, that he had decided to pursue something else. I also was gladthat he stopped coming. He was a bad advertisement for my teaching!
Several weeks later I mailed to the student's homes a flyer on theupcoming recital. To my surprise Robby (who received a flyer) asked meif he could be in the recital. I told him that the recital was forcurrent pupils and because he had dropped out he really did notqualify. He said that his mother had been sick and unable to take himto piano lessons but he was still practicing. "Miss Hondorf . I'vejust got to play!" he insisted.
I don't know what led me to allow him to play in the recital. Maybe itwas his persistence or maybe it was something inside of me saying thatit would be all right.. The night for the recital came. The highschool gymnasium was packed with parents, friends and relatives. I putRobby up last in the program before I was to come up and thank all thestudents and play a finishing piece. I thought that any damage hewould do would come at the end of the program and I could alwayssalvage his poor performance through my "curtain closer."
Well, the recital went off without a hitch. The students had beenpracticing and it showed. Then Robby came up on stage. His clotheswere wrinkled and his hair looked like he'd run an eggbeater throughit. "Why didn't he dress up like the other students?" I thought. "Whydidn'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 heannounced that he had chosen Mozart's Concerto #21 in C Major. I wasnot prepared for what I heard next. His fingers were light on thekeys, 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 sowell by people his age. After six and a half minutes he ended in agrand crescendo and everyone was on their feet in wild applause.
Overcome and in tears I ran up on stage and put my arms around Robbyin joy. "I've never heard you play like that Robby! How'd you do it? "
Through the microphone Robby explained: "Well Miss Hondorf remember Itold you my Mom was sick? Well, actually she had cancer and passedaway this morning. And well . . . she was born deaf so tonight was thefirst 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 fromSocial Services led Robby from the stage to be placed into fostercare, noticed that even their eyes were red and puffy and I thought tomyself 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 thattaught me the meaning of perseverance and love and believing inyourself and maybe even taking a chance in someone and you don't knowwhy.
Robby was killed in the senseless bombing of the Alfred P. MurrahFederal Building in Oklahoma City in April of 1995. And now, afootnote to the story.
If you are thinking about forwarding this message, you are probablythinking about which people on your address list aren't the"appropriate" ones to receive this type of message. The person whosent this to you believes that we can all make a difference. So manyseemingly trivial interactions between two people present us with achoice: Do we act with compassion or do we pass up that opportunity
and leave the world a bit colder in the process?
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