Remembering Ed Turley eight measures at a time

“I have to go see him Friday.”

I had been saying this all week. After all, study abroad had meant that I hadn’t seen Ed Turley since last fall and a loaded semester meant that I wouldn’t be able to take more piano lessons until spring. On Thursday, I, and countless others, were devastated.

I truly did not spend that much time with Turley—two semesters of weekly, 30-minute lessons and a few cherished, impromptu chats. I have no doubt that in the upcoming weeks and months, those who knew Turley personally, and for a longer time than I did, will best illuminate his kindness and exuberance to those who never got to experience it. But I would like to try to convey what our short time spent together meant to me, and how he made me feel.

When learning a difficult piece of music, Turley would often suggest that I start from the end and work backward eight measures at a time. Traditionally, in music, we start from the beginning. Every practice we challenge ourselves to push further. We play those first few measures thousands of times—and we get good at them. However, when we do this, the end can become rushed, an afterthought, as we cram for that upcoming performance.

In tackling this difficult piece—a remembrance of a lost mentor and friend, I will do as Turley suggested: begin at the end and work backwards.

Eight measures ago I was in Ireland—away from campus and certainly away from practicing piano. My phone lit up late one night—one image, from mom. She, an elementary orchestra teacher, was smiling widely. The backdrop was the Minnesota Music Educators Association Convention. Beside her, with an equally big grin, was Dr. Turley—whom she knew only from my stories. I am still uncertain how this connection was made, but when I called her the next morning, my mother was delighted to share the conversation that she had with the professor I had spoken so highly of, (She even claimed he spoke highly of me, too). I felt closer to home.

Eight measures earlier, I had just finished playing in a recital for the first time in many years. I felt it had gone poorly, but Dr. Turley promised me I had done well. It was not a blanket statement—he was specific and poignant as always. Despite being a man who was, in all my experiences, exceedingly kind, his kindness was somehow always meaningful. I felt reassured.

Eight measures earlier—the beginning: I was arriving to my first lesson with Turley. The patented smile was hidden behind a mask, but the mask couldn’t hide his welcoming nature. Over the next two semesters we developed a rapport and many rituals, none of which got old. Each lesson began with a “ceremonial cleansing of the keys.” He would chuckle at the same quip he had made just last week (and the week before), and I would grab the sanitary wipe.

When I inevitably forgot a pencil, he would provide one, and afterwards insist that I keep it. “For 40,000 a year I suppose we can give you a pencil,” he would say. “Not like St. Thomas; you know they would never give you a pencil.” I didn’t have the heart to tell him that his tuition number was becoming dated. He would ask about my mom—always curious to hear what another music educator was up to. “You have to invite her to the next recital—I want to meet her!”

He would ask about my schoolwork. When I told him about economics classes with Professors Sucharita Mukherjee and Louis Johnston, he glowed. He admitted that he always tried to sit with them for Gorecki lunches so that he could listen in on the conversation. “Their table is like the cool kids table,” he would say sheepishly. I suspect there are many who would likewise give Turley the moniker of “cool kid,” even if he would deny it.

I worry now that maybe I did not ask enough questions of him. But I did listen. And learn. And he made it easy.

On rare occasions, when I arrived at a lesson without his notice, I got to watch him practice—if only briefly. It always seemed wrong to “cleanse the keys” of whatever he’d been playing, only to subject them to me. But I felt lucky.

When you have successfully traversed backwards through your piece—in eight measure segments—it’s time to play from the beginning. All the way through. You hope it is flowing and coherent. I never saw (or heard) Turley playing a full piece—literally or metaphorically, but the measures I was fortunate enough to stumble in for always made me smile and left me grateful and inspired. What a beautiful piece it must have been.