The postman and Polonaise
I was 15 years old and playing the mini-grand in our beach house, a house with big windows and with a mail slot in the front door. The front door was open on this warm day. I wasn't surprised when I saw our regular mailman making his way to the door, big mail pouch hanging off his shoulder. He paused in the doorway and looked at me and Mom. I stopped playing. "I play the piano," he cheerfully announced. He asked if he could play for us.
Our mailman, Norm Maillet (cool name for a mailman), had a special talent and wanted to share it with us. We invited him in immediately. It was an other-worldly experience, seeing our 1970s bushy-headed, mustached mailman in official blue postal shorts making his way to our piano.
He promptly sat on the piano bench and banged out all of Chopin's Polonaise with vigor and accuracy. What an incredible treat. And soon he was off to deliver mail again. I had just listened to a man play masterfully. He was amazing. And he was a postman, and he had resumed his route.
After eight years of piano lessons, I had learned some grandiose pieces. This guy's skill clarified in an instant how puny my skills were. It would take years and years of hard work for me to reach his level. I decided then that I wouldn't learn Polonaise, that I wouldn't expend myself in lessons and practice to achieve that great skill yet end up in a job that had nothing to do with music. That's what went through my mind as a 15 year old.
