muumuus and minuets

First there was Cristin, who, at seven a.m. looked like a Barbie doll, her eye-liner, shadow and lipstick as if it had been hand-painted by the manufactures of Mattel. The pink Barbie Mobile was just behind the violin studio doors. I was sure of it. It took her to all the musical events around town, and she always got priority parking. She was the picture of perfection, teaching Suzuki with style.

Then, there was Judy. Night and day wouldn't begin to describe their differences. Judy went make up-less, unless she was playing for the Utah Symphony, and even then, it was lipstick and a little mascara. Judy roamed her house teaching minuets in a Hawaiian muumuu. She had dozens. Pink, yellow, blue, green. Going from Barbie to frizzy-haired, au naturale muumuu-wearing Judy was an adjustment, but how I grew to love Judy. Every aspect of her. Her dry wit. Her mechanical pencils. Her 70's style spectacles. I even grew to love Twinkle, her dog.

Her house smelled of rosin, xerox machines and dried out Crayola markers. Her piano ledge was peppered with markers of every shape and color. She slipped sheet music between them, creating a make-shift stand. A radial rainbow of marker lids spread out on the carpet beneath the piano bench, creating a colorful cushion for Judy's orthopedic shoes. She'd pump the piano pedals with the tick, tick, tick of the metronome, in her orthopedic shoes, smashing marker lids as she'd go.

Any time I'd arrive at my lesson with a crisp new Vivaldi, Bartok or Gluk, and before we could begin, Judy would scamper down the stairs to the xerox machine, her muumuu fluttering with every quick step. She'd come back in the studio with a fresh copy of my piece ready for marking. There was method behind her markers: green meant second position; purple meant third; orange was fifth. -0-0- meant "watch out" (a type for Judy's 70's shades) meaning, even if she wasn't there, she was always watching (think Big Brother in a muumuu). By the time federation or a recital came around, my music had been copied at least four times, hues turning to black with each copy, making room for new colors, new codes. Judy would plunk out the melody on the black and white piano keys, pausing to make any necessary marker editions. I'd follow along as best I could, paying attention to all the marks on yet another concerto of many colors.

I've had some recent run-ins with a few teachers as of late - one past violin teacher (not Judy) and another elementary school teacher. They still have those kind teaching, nurturing eyes. I want to tuck myself under their wing of wisdom and reap everything from their very beings. N still has those sparkley blue eyes and Miss P. still has the license plate that says JP 4 BYU. I'm sure Cristin has kept up the oil changes on her Barbie Mobile, and I have no doubt Judy still meanders in her muumuus, humming minuets as she scampers up and down the stairs to the xerox machine.