Bust

Not a great shot, taken from the sidewalk with my phone. Interesting how this garage window was so carefully decorated on Olive Street. 

Every time I see the bust, I recall our childhood piano teacher, the very patient, short, and rotund Mrs Badstuber. We took our homework to do on the couch as each child took turns with their lessons. Mrs B always had a cough drop or lozenge in her mouth. Her tiny cluttered living room where she taught had busts of classical composers in every nook and cranny. Occasionally, her son would come through. He was shaped like his mother, kind of like a stuffed cabbage roll. We didn’t know his name. At home we rotten kids called him Goober. Goober Badstuber. Like I said, rotten kids. I think the 4 oldest started lessons, but only 2 of us continued for any length of time. My oldest brother was gifted in that he could play just by sound, no music needed, on several instruments   He could never settle down to do the lessons. I recall how my mom always rushed us into the car to get there on time.