At
the
prodding
of
my
friends,
I
am
writing
this
story.
My
name
is
Mildred
Hondorf.
I
am
a
former
elementary
school
music
teacher
from
Des
Moines,
Iowa.
I've
always
supplemented
my
income
by
teaching
piano
lessons
-
something
I've
done
for
over
30
years.
Over
the
years
I
found
that
children
have
many
levels
of
musical
ability.
I've
never
had
the
pleasure
of
having
a
protege
though
I
have
taught
some
talented
students.
However
I've
also
had
my
share
of
what
I
call
"musically
challenged"
pupils.
One
such
student
was
Robby.
Robby
was
11
years
old
when
his
mother
(a
single
mom)
dropped
him
off
for
his
first
piano
lesson.
I
prefer
that
students
(especially
boys!)
begin
at
an
earlier
age,
which
I
explained
to
Robby.
But
Robby
said
that
it
had
always
been
his
mother's
dream
to
hear
him
play
the
piano.
So
I
took
him
as
a
student.
Well,
Robby
began
with
his
piano
lessons
and
from
the
beginning
I
thought
it
was
a
hopeless
endeavor.
As
much
as
Robby
tried,
he
lacked
the
sense
of
tone
and
basic
rhythm
needed
to
excel.
But
he
dutifully
reviewed
his
scales
and
some
elementary
pieces
that
I
require
all
my
students
to
learn.
Over
the
months
he
tried
and
tried
while
I
listened
and
cringed
and
tried
to
encourage
him.
At
the
end
of
each
weekly
lesson
he'd
always
say,
"My
mom's
going
to
hear
me
play
some
day."
But
it
seemed
hopeless.
He
just
did
not
have
any
inborn
ability.
I
only
knew
his
mother
from
a
distance
as
she
dropped
Robby
off
or
waited
in
her
aged
car
to
pick
him
up.
She
always
waved
and
smiled
but
never
stopped
in.
Then
one
day
Robby
stopped
coming
to
our
lessons.
I
thought
about
calling
him
but
assumed,
because
of
his
lack
of
ability,
that
he
had
decided
to
pursue
something
else.
I
also
was
glad
that
he
stopped
coming.
He
was
a
bad
advertisement
for
my
teaching!
Several
weeks
later
I
mailed
to
the
student's
homes
a
flyer
on
the
upcoming
recital.
To
my
surprise
Robby
(who
received
a
flyer)
asked
me
if
he
could
be
in
the
recital.
I
told
him
that
the
recital
was
for
current
pupils
and
because
he
had
dropped
out
he
really
did
not
qualify.
He
said
that
his
mom
had
been
sick
and
unable
to
take
him
to
piano
lessons
but
he
was
still
practicing.
"Miss
Hondorf
.
.
.
I've
just
got
to
play!"
he
insisted.
I
don't
know
what
led
me
to
allow
him
to
play
in
the
recital.
Maybe
it
was
his
persistence
or
maybe
it
was
something
inside
of
me
saying
that
it
would
be
alright.
The
night
for
the
recital
came.
The
high
school
gymnasium
was
packed
with
parents,
friends
and
relatives.
I
put
Robby
up
last
in
the
program
before
I
was
to
come
up
and
thank
all
the
students
and
play
a
finishing
piece.
I
thought
that
any
damage
he
would
do
would
come
at
the
end
of
the
program
and
I
could
always
salvage
his
poor
performance
through
my
"curtain
closer."
Well
the
recital
went
off
without
a
hitch.
The
students
had
been
practicing
and
it
showed.
Then
Robby
came
up
on
stage.
His
clothes
were
wrinkled
and
his
hair
looked
like
he'd
run
an
egg-beater
through
it.
"Why
didn't
he
dress
up
like
the
other
students?"
I
thought.
"Why
didn't
his
mother
at
least
make
him
comb
his
hair
for
this
special
night?"
Robby
pulled
out
the
piano
bench
and
he
began.
I
was
surprised
when
he
announced
that
he
had
chosen
Mozart's
Concerto
#21
in
C
Major.
I
was
not
prepared
for
what
I
heard
next.
His
fingers
were
light
on
the
keys,
they
even
danced
nimbly
on
the
ivories.
He
went
from
pianissimo
to
fortissimo;
from
allegro
to
virtuoso.
His
suspended
chords
that
Mozart
demands
were
magnificent!
Never
had
I
heard
Mozart
played
so
well
by
people
his
age.
After
six
and
a
half
minutes
he
ended
in
a
grand
crescendo
and
everyone
was
on
their
feet
in
wild
applause.
Overcome
and
in
tears
I
ran
up
on
stage
and
put
my
arms
around
Robby
in
joy.
"I've
never
heard
you
play
like
that
Robby!
How'd
you
do
it?"
Through
the
microphone
Robby
explained:
"Well,
Miss
Hondorf
.
.
.
remember
I
told
you
my
mom
was
sick?
Well
actually
she
had
cancer
and
passed
away
this
morning.
And
well
.
.
.
she
was
born
deaf
so
tonight
was
the
first
time
she
ever
heard
me
play.
I
wanted
to
make
it
special."
There
wasn't
a
dry
eye
in
the
house
that
evening.
As
the
people
from
Social
Services
led
Robby
from
the
stage
to
be
placed
into
foster
care,
I
noticed
that
even
their
eyes
were
red
and
puffy
and
I
thought
to
myself
how
much
richer
my
life
had
been
for
taking
Robby
as
my
pupil.
No,
I've
never
had
a
protege
but
that
night
I
became
a
protege
.
.
.
of
Robby's.
He
was
the
teacher
and
I
was
the
pupil.
For
it
was
he
that
taught
me
the
meaning
of
perseverance
and
love
and
believing
in
yourself
and
maybe
even
taking
a
chance
on
someone
and
you
don't
know
why.
Robby
was
killed
in
the
senseless
bombing
of
the
Alfred
P.
Murrah
Federal
Building
in
Oklahoma
City
in
April
of
1995.
If
you
are
thinking
about
forwarding
this
page,
you
are
probably
thinking
about
which
people
on
your
address
list
aren't
the
"appropriate"
ones
to
receive
this
type
of
message.
The
person
who
sent
this
to
you
believes
that
we
can
all
make
a
difference.
So
many
seemingly
trivial
interactions
between
two
people
present
us
with
a
choice:
Do
we
act
with
compassion
or
do
we
pass
up
that
opportunity
and
leave
the
world
a
bit
colder
in
the
process?"
You
have
two
choices
now:
1.
Pass
the
opportunity
to
change
someone's
life. or 2.
Share
this
page
with
the
people
you
care
about.
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