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From The Publisher's Desk
The year was 1959. I was 9 years old. The biggest event in my world was the completion of the house my parents built, which meant it was time for Mom to make the purchase she had talked about for months.
I remember accompanying her to the piano store in downtown Los Angeles. True to her style, my mother had done her homework and knew the brand and type of piano we were there to buy. It must have taken her a long time to save $975 for the French Provencal upright piano in fruitwood. I had seen her stash dollars into the tin in her closet, preparing for this day.
There were several reasons why my mother encouraged me to play the piano. She always wanted me to have the things that her parents couldn’t afford to give her. Mom loved all kinds of music, but thought the piano was the perfect instrument for a young girl.
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