_I must have entered this world singing. My mother said that my first sounds were more like humming than vocalizations even though my first word would be a resounding “No!” Music has always lived inside of me buzzing like a small appliance just waiting to be turned on to blend or toast something.

As a kid, I was surrounded by music. My father and his musician friends regularly practiced their craft in our living room. We’d host all-night “shows” at our humble homes that featured a large pot of spaghetti and a pan of chocolate cake with lots of beer, wine and whiskey. When we weren’t being treated to the live stuff, there was always a tape deck or turntable happily spinning something soulful or danceable. My parents had excellent taste in music. Then there were the quieter moments when I’d find my father sitting contemplatively with a guitar in his hands gently strumming familiar tunes. I loved those moments best.

My father would often invite me to sing along with him and I’d eagerly join him. We both really dug songs from The Beatles, Elvis Presley and Dolly Parton. Occasionally, he’d bust out a Blondie song or something closer to my generation’s songs. I just enjoyed harmonizing and getting my daddy’s undivided attention. One day, however, I realized just how much I wanted to learn to play an instrument of my own.

“I could teach you the guitar,” my father offered a few times. Harry Hudson had taught himself most of what he knew about guitar playing. His first guitar cost a whole $10 and was purchased at a thrift store when he was 10. Just like the star of the song, “Johnny B Good,” he would carry it around and play it for whoever would listen whenever he felt like playing.

I was very tempted to become his student. I had learned to play the ukulele in fourth grade and figured what could be hard about adding two extra strings. The first few attempts to strum my father’s acoustic guitar were painful. My fingers throbbed for hours after just half an hour of playing. The size of the guitar was also a little large and clumsy for my then 11-year-old frame. I put it back into its case. I wasn’t ready for it. My dad didn’t know about my “practice” session that day.

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During this time, the Covington girls moved into the small town of Duchesne, Utah, where we lived at the time. I had a best friend, Ruthie, who lived 40 miles away in Neola. The only times we saw each other was at the church we attended or on brief sleepovers at each other’s homes. It was nice to meet Delena and her sister, Tonilinn, who were almost exactly the same ages as me and my sister. Tracie and Tonilinn became best friends and Delena and I did, too.

The Covingtons were such a warm family. Tracie and I loved visiting their house for a few reasons, but mostly because we felt so welcome there. Mr. and Mrs. Covington were life-long Mormons, but they didn’t care that my parents were recent Jehovah’s Witness converts. Our families shared very similar values and that made us perfect playmates for their kids.

The first thing I noticed about their house was the large upright piano that was almost always open. I remember coming over to the Covington house after school on many occasions to hear Mrs. Covington practicing some lovely Mormon hymns or other songs. She was an expert player. Like all good Mormon families, everyone in the family was required to take up an instrument and learn to play it well. Lucky for me, Delena played piano.

When I discovered this talent my new best friend had, I was thrilled beyond words. I didn’t realize it until a few years later, but I had secret longings to be a lounge singer. Maybe it was the addiction to Marlene Dietrich’s “The Blue Angel,” a film I’d seen a million times in my childhood, but I had plans for us. Delena was to be my accompanist; I would entertain “the troops” or whomever we could rustle up gigs to sing for. It seemed so perfect.

Entering seventh-grade, we both auditioned for a local production of “South Pacific,” and Delena did help me with my audition song. I sang The Beatles’ “Yesterday” and landed a small role. I remember the fun we had practicing after school sitting side by side on the piano bench at the Covington’s house. It was like we were sisters. I dreamed of sitting side by side with my own sister at a piano, but she wasn’t interested in anything but dancing and couldn’t carry a tune like Delena. I also really wanted my own piano.

“We don’t have the money or the room,” my mother protested when I asked why WE didn’t have a piano in our house. My parents were scraping by with four kids packed into a two-bedroom home that was already filled to the brim when we moved in three years’ previously. The house was my aunt’s and my parents were completely broke. We crammed four adults including my aunt, grandmother and parents along with seven kids—my aunt’s three boys and our four-pack—into a place that didn’t have a basement or attic. The day my aunt and her kids moved out with my grandmother was welcome. It left us alone as a family, but still woefully lacking space. I could still find room for a piano, I thought, even if I had to sleep under it to have it.

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Sometime after turning 16, I found myself at another friend’s house with another piano. Angie’s family had moved from our small town of Roosevelt, Utah, to Salt Lake City. We visited them from time to time. Unfortunately, this time was not a social call. My mother was in the hospital after nearly dying from a collapsing heart valve. The Wellman’s put us up for a few nights while we tried to avoid facing the possible death of our mother. The presence of a piano tucked away in the basement was a welcome distraction.

As my sister tried to figure out ways she could meet new boys, I found myself drawn to that lonely basement to gently stroke the shiny black and white keys that beckoned me to them. At first, I didn’t really know what I was doing. Like most beginners, I thrust my hands across the keyboard like a lightening strike hoping something melodious would thunder out of it. Instead, choppy, angry sounds emerged from the piano. It was then I learned to stop pretending and start learning.

Approaching the keys like a mischievous kitten proved to be the right touch. After a few tentative touches, I could suddenly pick out sounds that were familiar to my ears. I didn’t know the notes I was playing by name, but I could organize them into strings of notes that turned into songs. I didn’t realize I was learning to play by ear, a process where you let the instrument remind your brain that you know these songs by heart and if you’re patient, you can find them on that instrument and actually play them. It was a small victory when I played the theme from the television show, “M.A.S.H.”

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When I was 17, my father got a huge social security disability check from the government. It was back pay for the years they’d denied his claims even though he was an amputee with a glass eye and a degenerating back. The windfall allowed my parents to put a down payment on a new house and splurge a little on their four kids.

At first, the splurge was only going to be $50. My brothers were cool with this. Kenny was getting a new skateboard and something small. Mikey was looking forward to a new baseball bat and glove. My sister, Tracie, was getting a plane ticket to visit home from Philadelphia where she was living as a nanny. I had my eyes on a Casio keyboard that cost almost $90. I had some parental persuading to do if I was going to get it.

On our trip to Salt Lake City from Roosevelt, my parents playfully asked what I wanted. They knew full-well what I’d wanted for the longest time, but giving out more than our allotted $50 per kid would cut into our school clothing budget which was set at a very high $200 per kid. I had friends whose families spent two or three times that on their kids; our average yearly allowance was around $80 including shoes. My mother’s $6-an-hour job was all we had to sustain us for nearly three years prior. Asking for more than my share was asking for someone else to go without.

After a long, exhausting day of shopping, I was the only kid who had only spent half her clothing budget and still didn’t have her “special” present. As my brothers fiddled with their baseball bats, gloves and skateboards, I sulked in the backseat of our white station wagon. I hated being so damned poor all the time! For once, my parents had money. For once, I could get something I’d always wanted but was told we couldn’t have. It seemed so unfair.

As we rolled into the parking lot of Sears, my mother announced it would be our last stop. “Kit Kat, you’d better find something here now. We can’t come back to Salt Lake for a few more months.”

I fought back tears that had been hiding like small dams below my eyes waiting to burst open all day. I didn’t see how it was fair that my parents were spending almost $500 on a plane ticket for my sister and how my brothers, who were always getting into trouble and losing or breaking or outgrowing things would probably get an extra few pairs of shoes this year, while I’d be left rummaging through church hand-me-downs from old ladies who didn’t share my fashion sense. I also got a little bit touchy about the fact that my dad was getting yet ANOTHER acoustic guitar when he had at least one guitar to play at home already. Then the dams broke in the middle of the electronics section and there was no turning back. Out flowed every argument I’d kept in my head all day in one long stream of expletive-laced verbal water. My parents were obviously angry, but when I saw my mother’s face soften and a tear escape her eye, I knew I’d won.

My father sprang for some batteries so I could play with my new keyboard on the way home. Stroking the soft, plastic keys, dreams of stardom danced in my head. I could wind up on Broadway. Or in Los Angeles doing music videos. Maybe I’d win the next school talent show. None of it really mattered because I could stop dreaming and start playing.

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I didn’t end up on Broadway. I have created a few music videos as a producer for a few musician friends. And no, I didn’t win any school talent shows. Yet, the memories of that first keyboard and the joy it brought me have never left.

My first keyboard was destroyed during a move many years ago. It was a tough loss mitigated by the gift of a new one by my then-husband. Somehow, that one got pushed off into the back of an extra bedroom and finally wound up on a donation truck bound for someone else’s dreams. My dreams of playing piano or a keyboard were never lost completely.

As I’ve been out of work for the past six and a half months, I’ve struggled with ways to quiet my sometimes crazy mind. They say that “music soothes the savage beast” and that is how my brain often feels. As I’ve veered through a gamut of emotions, I’ve found myself always returning to music as a way to settle my soul and make my mind sound again. So when I got the notion of finding a used keyboard, I knew it was a little crazy, but probably necessary to find one.

I’ve had even less money than my poor, deceased parents did when they bought me my first keyboard. After some searching around the Internet on places like Craig’s List, I came across a posting for a used keyboard. The poster admitted it was old, but she quickly reassured me that it worked just fine. I was two days away from my next unemployment check and had only $50 to my name, but for $15, I had to at least see this thing.

It wasn’t the prettiest or the shiniest of instruments, but a quick tickling of the dust-covered keys proved it worked. That was all I needed to hear. I pulled out the handful of cash and procured the ugly little beast with two hands as it wasn’t as light or as small as my old keyboards.