PLZ HELP!!!! Below is the story. I will put the questions in the comments below!

My father’s family is not a musical family. They are a family of words, a family that thrives on long discussions, Sunday crossword puzzles, and puns. My brother has my father’s dark hair, his love of a good argument, and his incisive wit. I take after my mother. From her I inherited a curious nature, a sense of adventure, bright red hair, and a face full of freckles. I did not, contrary to her hopes, inherit a talent for the piano. That fact was established beyond doubt after prolonged and futile attempts to draw music from me.
The piano lessons began when I was four. My mother was convinced that I would be a child prodigy, one of the rare, startling creatures who sits down at the piano for the first time and discovers, in a few swift adjustments of fingers, how to make the piano sing. She had made some phone calls and found the ideal teacher to nurture such a prodigy—Madame Oblenka, a stern Russian woman of indeterminate age, whose tight bun and pursed lips were enough to intimidate a wild horse into submission. Madame Oblenka, who expected a little M o z a r t, was not overly delighted to find herself saddled with a little girl banging her fists on the keys.

I tried to please her. “Feel the music,” she urged. I “felt” it and winced my ears—for what is more unpleasant than a series of wrong notes played in succession? She “felt” my music, too, which is why she always left with an even deeper scowl than when she came. My parents endured the sounds of my practicing, buoyed by dreams of me one day taking the stage in a famous recital hall. Madame Oblenka survived our lessons by wearing earplugs. I endured in whatever manner I could invent. Once, when I was ten, I managed to record one of my own wretched rehearsals. In order to escape my practice sessions, I would close myself behind the door of the piano room, put on the tape recording, and read until the tape had finished. That method worked for a week, until my mother began to wonder why I always missed the same B-sharp. She knocked on the door, and, receiving no answer, came in to check on me. She found that I had fallen asleep while the tape of my performance played on and on.

I was twelve when my parents finally acknowledged that any latent talent I had was not about to emerge any time soon. My mother, refusing to admit defeat, told me to pick another instrument. “Choose anything you want, Honey,” she said, assuming that freedom of choice would inspire devotion. I thought long and hard and chose the drums. My parents, acutely sensitive to noise, would be less than overjoyed by a daily bombardment of pounding. I imagined my father in his study, cotton wads in his ears, wincing each time the cymbal crashed. He, apparently, had exactly the same thoughts as mine, and promptly vetoed the idea.

My next choice was the tuba. I stubbornly decided that if I couldn’t play the drums, I would pick the biggest and loudest instrument I knew. However, the music teacher, a large, flabby man by the name of Mr. Tuttle, was lazy by nature and refused to travel to our home. “If you want to play,” he said, “I’ll teach you after school.” Luck was once again on my side. The aisle of the school bus was too narrow to accommodate my tuba case; if I wanted to learn to play tuba, I would have to walk to school with it. That was out of the question, so the tuba, too, was out.

I worked my way through several other instruments—violin, trombone, penny whistle—before my mother hit on another idea. Maybe I wasn’t meant to be an instrumentalist but rather a singer. After all, I was always walking around humming pop tunes from the radio, and when I screamed for my brother to come to dinner, my voice was plenty loud.
Mom helped me rehearse a song to audition for the school musical. I didn’t get a part. I didn’t make the chorus either, but the drama teacher assured me that he’d find a special spot just for me, one more suited to my talents. He put me backstage, painting scenery. Once I recovered from my sense of injury, I realized the wisdom of his choice. I loved the bustling, practical backstage world, and I discovered that I had a knack for constructing and painting. I loved the challenge of taking our scanty supplies and using them to make something beautiful. Imagining a scene and then seeing it emerge before me—this, to me, was close to magic.

To give my parents credit, when they noticed my newfound interest in set design, they eagerly embraced it. In fact, immediately after the show ended, Mom offered to send me to weekend art classes. Her hand was on the telephone, ready to start calling around, when I stopped her. “Mom,” I said, “don’t push me. Right now, I just want to have fun with art. I don’t want to lose that.”

Question

kohler.guillermo · Accepted Answer

Answer:Explanation:I can only write a little bit right now. The primary theme of this is the mother's determination to make her daughter into what she could never be. Her talents just not see musical scores as anything but I jumble of notes.The humor is developed by telling us what happened when a someone is forced to feel something they have no feeling for at all. It doesn't sound very funny, but when the person tries to go around the problem by changing the instrument, nothing happens, or nothing good. A drum really does require hand eye coordination and it produces more noise than the pink bunny in all those ads. So that never got off the ground. The father knew better than to indulge his wife on that one.Other instruments suffered the same fate: the tuba could not be transported. The violin likely squawked. Lord knows about the others. It is not that she was angry at not finding the right niche that she fit into, it more that she wanted succeed and could not possibly do it with what she was given. She wanted to. She just couldn't.Finally she found it was not music that she delighted in. It was construction. It was something like set design where her hands knew what she needed to do to create the best possible use of a confined area like a stage. Her hands could do nothing wrong.Her mother was absolutely delighted and was just on the verge of phoning around when the daughter, by this time old enough, was able to say to her. "Mom cool it. Just let me live in the moment." That leads us to the conflict. Some will say it was an internal search for what bought about a powerful feeling of understanding. I think it really began with the conflict she had with her mother who was determined to set her going down a path she simply was not prepared in any way to go down. That frustration is barely covered over. Her mother was well meaning, but not right. And she didn't widen her horizons. The daughter did. The mother's ego was the main problem.Finally, she knew what her gift was. It was in her hands. That was the magic.The mood of this is humorous to begin with, but towards the end she came to understand what he gift really was. It was not only her hands but it was also the joy of creation. It was the "feeling" of the creative act that she came to understand. It was the magic that so few of us are given. By the end , the mood was that of a heartfelt prayer.

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