Robby's Night (True Story -- Definitely
Worth
At the prodding of my friends, I am writing this story. My name is Mildred
Hondorf. I am a former elementary school music teacher from
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 his mother (a
single Mom) dropped him off for his first piano lesson. I prefer that students
(especially boys) begin at an earlier age, which I explained to Robby.
But Robby
said that it had always been his mother's dream to hear him play the piano. So
I took him as a student. Well, Robby began with his piano lessons and from the
beginning I thought it was a hopeless endeavor.
As much as Robby tried, he lacked the sense of tone and basic rhythm needed to
excel. But he dutifully reviewed his scales and some elementary pieces that I
require all my students to learn
Over the months he tried and tried while I listened and cringed and tried to
encourage him. At the end of each weekly lesson he'd always say, "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 a distance as she dropped
Robby off or waited in her aged car to pick him 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 of ability, that he
had decided to pursue something else. I also was glad that he stopped coming.
He was a bad advertisement for my teaching!
Several weeks later I mailed, to the student's homes, a flyer on the upcoming
recital. To my surprise Robby (who received a flyer) asked me if he could be in
the recital. I told him that the recital was for current pupils and because he
had dropped out he really did not qualify. He said that his mother had been
sick and unable to take him to piano lessons but he was still practicing.
"Miss Hondorf . . I've just got to play!" he
insisted.
I don't know what led me to allow him to play in the recital. Maybe it was his
persistence or maybe it was something inside of me saying that it would be all
right. The night for the recital came. The high school gymnasium was packed
with parents, friends and relatives. I put Robby up last in the program before
I was to come up and thank all the students and play a finishing piece. I
thought that any damage he would do would come at the end of the program and I
could always salvage his poor performance through my "curtain
closer."
Well, the recital went off without a hitch. The students had been practicing
and it showed. Then Robby came up on stage. His clothes were wrinkled and his
hair looked like he'd run an eggbeater through it. "Why didn't he dress up
like the other students?" I thought. "Why didn't his mother at least
make him comb his hair for this special night?"
Robby pulled out the piano bench and he began. I was surprised when he
announced that he had chosen Mozart's Concerto #21 in C Major. I was not
prepared for what I heard next. His fingers were light on the keys, they even danced nimbly on the ivories. He went from
pianissimo to fortissimo. From allegro to virtuoso.
His suspended chords that Mozart demands were magnificent! Never had I heard
Mozart played so well by people his age. After six and a half minutes he ended
in a grand crescendo and everyone was on their feet in wild applause.
Overcome and in tears, I ran up on stage and put my arms around Robby in joy.
"I've never heard you play like that Robby! How'd you do it?" Through
the microphone Robby explained: "Well Miss Hondorf . . . remember I told
you my Mom was sick? Well, actually she had cancer and passed away this
morning. And well . . . she was born deaf, so tonight was the first 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 from Social
Services led Robby from the stage to be placed into foster care, I noticed that
even their eyes were red and puffy and I thought to myself 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 that taught me
the meaning of perseverance and love and believing in yourself and maybe even
taking a chance in someone and you don't know why.
Robby was killed in the senseless bombing of the Alfred P. Murrah Federal
Building in
If you are
thinking about forwarding this message, you are probably thinking about which
people on your address list aren't the "appropriate" ones to receive
this type of message. The person who sent this to you believes that we can all
make a difference. So many seemingly trivial interactions between two people
present us with a choice: Do we act with compassion or do we pass up that
opportunity and leave the world a bit colder in the process?
You now have two choices:
1. Delete this.
2. Forward it to the people you care about.
You know the choice I made. Thank you for reading this
May God bless you today tomorrow and always.
God, grant me the serenity to accept the things I cannot change,
the Courage to change the things I can and
the Wisdom to know the difference