“One’s Erring Fingers”

 

  

I’ve started reading my way through some of the novels by Dawn Powell in the two Library of America editions edited by my FB friend Tim Page.

In the second novel in the first volume—Come Back to Sorrento (1932)—I was struck by a bit of a sentence: “one’s erring fingers” (208).

It reminded me of ... me.

The quotation refers to a piano player—as if I needed a reminder  of my own “skills” on that instrument. I took lessons throughout my boyhood and adolescence, rarely practiced, as was quite evident to anyone who ever heard me play.

I still remember the puzzled look on the face of my high school basketball coach when I told him I had to miss a practice because I had to play in a piano recital that evening. It was the reaction he’d have had if I’d told him I was going to be orbiting the earth that night.

I played one of Beethoven’s German dances—loud and impressive (but not that difficult a piece)—and got a nice response from those in the small crowd who didn’t know much about music.

It was my swan song—the last recital of my career. I cared far more about basketball, and my older brother played infinitely better than I.

No, what resonated with me about that quotation was typing. I took typing in high school and did very well. We had our weekly timed tests, and because of the bells on the machines everyone could hear how everyone else was doing. I really sought to be the first each week whose bell rang. Often I was.

And, oh, has that skill served me well throughout my life. College and grad school papers, dissertation, handouts for my classes for my teaching, etc.  Probably the most useful high school course I ever took.

In my latter years (now) I occasionally lose (because of my balance problems) my ability to type accurately or swiftly, mostly because of my disobedient right hand. When things are going well, I can still type fairly accurately, fairly swiftly.

But when they’re not going well it takes quite awhile to complete a single line. I mis-hit keys like crazy. And it frustrates the hell out of me.

Even as I type this post, I’m having a few problems—not like my worst days, but not like my good ones, either. Lots of backspacing and correcting. 

Oh, and don’t get me started on my penmanship!