When I was about eight years old, I started taking piano lessons with Mrs. Van Den Bosch. I don't remember too much about how she looked. I do remember that she made me sit up very straight, curve my fingers like an egg was resting beneath them, and gave me gold stars if I did well. Mrs. V was psychic. She knew when I did not practice. Like other students, I sometimes thought that the piano playing I did at the lesson itself would suffice. She could tell, and my chart had shameful glaring empty spots where those cherished gold stars should have been. The funny thing about my piano lessons was that my dad was an excellent piano teacher. He just couldn't teach us kids. We would whine, refuse to cooperate, or get hurt feelings when he tried to correct us. The same thing has happened with my daughter. For the past four or five years I tried to teach her piano. I'd get out my beginner book and eagerly show her Middle C. She would be bored and frus...