For some inexplicable reason, the name of my last piano teacher popped into my head. I haven’t thought about him in about 25 years, so I Googled him.
He wasn’t your average schoolteacher enduring dissonance to make a few extra bucks after hours. He was supposedly some former musical child prodigy. To study with him, you had to have references, and you had to attend both a group session on music theory and a private lesson each week. I have no idea where Mom found the money to pay for it.
I remember him as a demanding human metronome, beating a pencil against the piano during my lessons and breaking more than one as he grew increasingly impatient with my inconsistent rhythm. He’s a college professor now, and apparently his patience hasn’t improved. Google provided a link to current students’ opinions, including “he gets fed up pretty quick” and “This man gives me the overwhelming desire to jump off [a really big bridge] immediately following every class.”