Plato and Potato Chips. June Inc. Luvisi

As I said, my memory of all this is pretty hazy, but I do remember that I loved my mom’s lessons and the times we spent together at the piano. She made the whole experience fun. And she taught me “Long, Long Ago”, which I can play from memory to this day!

      Eventually, after moving into the apartment building, my mother arranged for me to take lessons from an “official” piano teacher and I progressed to a slightly more difficult piece known as “The March of the Wooden Soldiers.” It appeared that my piano career was really taking off when my music teacher announced that she was giving a formal piano recital in a nearby auditorium. I did practice “March of the Wooden Soldiers”, but looking back, I don’t think I worked very hard at it. I hadn’t an inkling of what it would be like to perform a piano piece from memory, especially in such an intimidating setting.

      I dimly remember sitting at the piano, playing the beginning of “Wooden Soldiers”, and for the first time in my life, having my mind go blank! Ouch! When I think of the embarrassment, I still can fee the heat in my cheeks! Having attended a zillion recitals over the years, I know this is not all that unusual. At the time, of course, it seemed like the end of the world. It wasn’t the end of the world, but by mutual agreement it marked a long pause in my piano studies!

      The breath of autumn

      Posted on September 3, 2010 by June

      The hot, muggy days that began September are vanished. The air is sun-washed. The blazing yellow of the mature black-eyed susans along the fence still remind of summer. Yet there’s no denying…autumn is hovering.

      Dickens and me

      Posted on September 5, 2010 by June

      Even before I started school, I loved reading, but it was in my second year of high school that literature loved me back. My teacher was a wise woman who taught us to appreciate Dickens by reading him aloud. Having an opportunity to hear my teacher bring “A Tale of Two Cities” to life in the classroom set off my romantic imagination. I loved hearing her oral interpretation.

      However, when I learned we would all be taking a turn at reading aloud, anxiety set in. I was about fourteen, having skipped a grade and a half in grade school (no one gave much thought to social maturity in those days), and this kind of dramatic reading was unfamiliar territory. Unfamiliar and scary. Some of the other students had stumbled on the words and I was petrified that they would remain buried in my throat when I was called upon. It didn’t take much to frighten me in those days and my hands were cold and sweaty as I waited my turn.

      Yet the overwhelming and selfless love of the dissipated English barrister Sydney Carton for the lovely Lucie Manette had set my teenage heart afire. Imagine, Sydney was going to the guillotine so that his beloved could be with his rival, the man of her choice! And when it came time for me to read, to my amazement the words I read aloud actually sounded pretty good. Unbelievable as it seemed, my reading turned out to be fun. Dickens had so involved me in his characters that my concern for them shone through my words. For a while my shyness went out the window, and I felt exhilarated. Best of all, my teacher caught up with me after class and said those special words, words I will never forget: “June, I think you should be a writer!”

      When I went to college and had to choose a major, however, I opted for a degree in sociology. I believed I could do more for humanity as a social worker and was convinced an English degree was frivolous. It wasn’t until many years later that I followed my instincts and got a masters in English lit and returned to my love of language.

      Going back to university in my forties was an adventure! Even when the professors left something to be desired, reading the great masters in maturity was like food for my soul. Later I worked as an adjunct instructor at Harper Community for six years and that was another mind opening experience. My life became so much more satisfying when it included literature. Here I am, sixty-five years after that eventful English class and that wonderful experience with Dickens. And I am writing.

      Home birth

      Posted on September 14, 2010 by June

      I was born into what was then a relatively new section of Chicago in the northwest outskirts. It was made up of neat rows of brick two flats, one after the other on the parallel streets, with commercial development along North Avenue. I made my entrance into life in an upstairs bedroom on a very hot June day after a prolonged labor during which the doctor accused my mother of not pushing hard enough to deliver me more promptly.

      As it was later revealed, I was wedged in the birth channel sideways, so when the doctor pulled me out thinking he had grasped a leg, it was really my right arm. I was at first not conscious and my right arm hung limply at my side. Fortunately, though I weighed only four pounds, to my mother and father’s great relief, I started to cry.

      Over the years they told me many times of how thrilled and happy they were to have their little girl. I was told they carried me around on a pillow, so afraid were they of injuring me. Poor Mom was furious with the doctor and accused him of incompetence; however, suing was not was as common as it is now, so they dutifully massaged my arm according to medical advice until it regained partial restoration and we all went on with life. Though my entrance to life was challenging, I had a treasure not available to all: loving parents.