Shelling Corn

somehow, almost mysteriously, i started improvising at the piano when i was about 9 years old. i had a sharp musical memory and could remember anything i played, even if i had been playing for hours. my early "compositions" were drawn from this memory and given a name which i would play on music participation days, or i would just improvise a new piece on the spot. it never occuurred to me that i might not be able to do this, and so i was fearless in front of small audiences when at the piano...

my father had grown up on a farm in oklahoma. he was among the youngest in a large family, and consequently when he was given chores to do, he was by-passed for some of the more responsible tasks, and usually given the most time-consuming and boring jobs on the farm: shelling corn. You would sit for hours taking ears of corn, stripping off the husks, and shredding the kernels of corn into bushel baskets, ear after ear... for my dad, this was the most meaningless way of biding time...

many times i would come home from school and sit at the piano, improvising well into the late evening. on weekends, i often spent four or five hours at the piano. what was a source of amazement was that new musical ideas were born in each session, and i could remember them indefinitely...

i am not sure what was actually taking place during these years which stretched from elementary days until my last year in junior high. undoubtedly a process that was stretching my capacity for abstract thinking was deepening and maturing... i have often thought that music is a form of abstract thinking, yet really deeper than what we usually associate with "thinking." It is more than "problem-solving" which is where much of the literature has developed in an attempt to objectify and "research" the creative process... it is venturing into nothingness and pulling from the silence an entity...bringing something into being for the first time and in the profound pause of that moment....

improvising for long periods at the piano was almost a ritual. my father was absolutely mystified by this activity which seemed to him to be an extraordinary waste of time...

consequently, when my friends were looking for me and would see my dad working in the yard, they would ask "where's your son?" he would pause and then reply, oh he's inside, shelling corn..."