The life and times of "high profile" teachers are generally well chronicled. For example, a simple internet search yields much on the legacy of Leonard Shure, my principal teacher as an advanced piano student. I owe a great debt to all my teachers, and could easily write tributes to all of them. But it is often the private teacher ("in the trenches," as we say) who makes an invaluable, yet often overlooked, contribution to our pianistic development. Gladys Ondricek is one such teacher. I studied with her for only a few years as a teenager (1969-72), yet her influence was profound. Without her tutelage I may never have been accepted into Shure's studio later on. So I am distressed to find only one passing reference to Gladys Ondricek on the internet. I do not know her birth date or exact time of death (late 1970s?). If I recall correctly, her husband was a noted violinist, yet I can only find historical references to Franz Ondriczek (born 1859), who was perhaps Gladys Ondricek's father-in-law.

So I hope this homage will help bring at least some recognition to a very deserving teacher. And if anyone out there can give me the full biographical details of her life I would be most grateful. Gladys Pousselt Ondricek was a student of Heinrich Gebhard (1878-1963). Gebhard was one of the most renowned piano & composition teachers in Boston in his day. He taught many eminent composers such as Leonard Bernstein (1935-1939) & Alan Hovhaness (1911-2000). Mrs. Ondricek's studio was located on 246 Huntington Ave. in Boston, near Leonard Bernstein's studio.

Before I proceed with my personal account of Ondricek, let me put it into a better context by relating a brief account of my life before my lessons with her.

I grew up in Lowell, Massachusetts. Lowell is the birth place of Ed McMahon, the industrial revolution (with all its resplendent pollution), and Bette Davis, who once paid this lovely tribute to her birth place: "I was born in Lowell, Massachusetts and I was there for two months of my life…Thank God my family took me out of there."

My first piano teacher was my mother, Beatrice Dupré Houle (1925-1994), who started me at the age of seven. Lessons with her lasted for three months. My next teacher, Antoinette Boudreau, put me through all the old Schaum method books. Tragically, she died in a terrible car accident on New Year's eve, 1966. I was then referred to Anna Scannell, considered by many to be the best teacher in Lowell. I learned a great deal, particularly about the importance of counting and good fingerings.

Miss Scannell had hardy genes, for she passed away in 1990 at the age of 104. (Just think - when Miss Scannell was a baby Grover Cleveland was the U.S. President and Idaho, where I now live, had not yet been admitted into statehood!)

Miss Scannell also had a great sense of humor. True story (I was there): at her 100th birthday celebration she got a tongue-in-cheek marriage proposal from Jack Payne, a relatively spry 80-something (?) bachelor. Jack (all in good fun) said, "So Anna -- when are ya gonna marry me?" and Miss Scannell shot back, "Oh Jack, you KNOW I'm waiting for someone older and more mature!" Miss Scannell's niece also confided to me that the last time Anna Scannell went to church, she asked for a double shot of the wine.

My lessons with Miss Scannell lasted two years. In 1969 she made a very selfless decision to personally introduce me to Madame Ondricek, whom she regarded as a better teacher. I have always been grateful to Miss Scannell for this sacrifice. She could have easily continued to coast along with me. Certainly it did not enhance her prestige to give up one of her "prize" students (I often performed last on recitals). At the time, I did not think Miss Scannell's referral was extraordinary. But now, having seen how possessive teachers often are with students, I appreciate what Miss Scannell did. She put the interests of her students ahead of her own, which is something I have always tried to emulate. Despite her advanced age, Miss Scannell personally escorted me from Lowell to Boston by train (a 26-mile trip) to audition for Madame Ondricek.

Like any teenager, I was nervous but full of youthful naiveté and ebullience. For the audition I played the ever-popular Chopin Polonaise in A-Flat, fully expecting that my pianistic greatness would be abundantly evident. But whoever coined the expression "A little knowledge is a dangerous thing" must have had me in mind. In hindsight I realize that my playing was "musical" but quite immature and sloppy otherwise. The air that Mrs. Ondricek let out of my sails could have knocked over a house! I was devastated. Nonetheless, she must have seen some potential, for she accepted me into her studio.

So what were the lessons like? Ondricek was a dying breed of teacher. For one thing, she never looked at the clock. Lessons could go on for ninety minutes, two hours, perhaps even more. She was the kind of teacher that a young Beethoven would have had - someone who was well rounded and taught EVERYTHING (a rigorous technical regimen, many styles of music, theory, harmony, etc.). What private teacher today assigns four-part harmony assignments to precollege students?

Little wonder I sailed through my college theory classes years later. Moreover, Ondricek's technique assignments would make a Russian-trained pianist flinch. I started teaching at the age of thirteen and have taught just about every level of student, including doctoral graduate students. Yet I cannot recall ever encountering a student whose technical training surpassed what Mrs. Ondricek assigned. In addition to the standard scales and arpeggios, I was, for example, expected to play scales in double thirds (all major & minor keys, solid and broken), chromatic minor thirds (also solid and broken), and countless exercises that were ingeniously tailored for specific pieces. At that time I thought this was all pretty normal piano teaching. Only later did I see how today's "age of specialization" has artificially separated the various components of music teaching into separate classes -- applied classical repertory coaching, chamber music, theory, musicology, composition, improvisation (if we're lucky), etc., all nicely compartmentalized. But rarely do we get a real synthesis of these elements, all from one master mentor, as in bygone days. And sadly, the pace of life today makes it a challenge to spend sufficient time with every student. If I could, I would outlaw half hour lessons! (J. S. Bach taught his students every day of the week, not merely once a week as is the norm today.)

Madame Ondricek was not shy about writing all over our music scores. It was a weekly ritual that before each lesson started, she would hand you her personal score (the "sacred text" in my mind) - riddled with her pencil marks - and have you copy every single annotation into your score. This was before the days of easy access to photocopy machines. I often muse that technology is not an unmixed blessing, for there was something about laboriously copying those marks that made me THINK about each and every facet of the music - fingerings, pedaling markings, and overall musical interpretation. Perhaps using a copy machine instead may have hindered this development.

Lessons were full of probing, questioning and analyzing the musical text. Most importantly, her goal was to ultimately empower students to go through this process on their own. The cumulative result of this approach (and here I must also credit Leonard Shure and others, such as Victor Rosenbaum) is that today I tell students, "I don't teach - I facilitate learning. My goal is put myself out of business by helping YOU learn how to learn."

Mrs. Ondricek was much more that just a piano teacher to me. She was a delightfully eccentric but wise mentor who offered life advice, proclaimed her childlike love of newspaper comics, railed against the Vietnam war (prophetic) and fluoridation (well, no one's perfect), did exercises on her studio floor with the television exercise lady, and cared about every student as a unique and complete person, not merely as a piano student. I recall that when I confided to her that a girl had broken my teenage heart, she listened sympathetically and then ruefully quoted Plato: "Love is a grave mental disease." On another occasion she asked me, "Have you suffered any real tragedies?" I answered, "Not really." She then lamented, "That's too bad." I was horrified, until I realized that she wasn't really wishing me ill per se - only that I would develop the personal and musical maturity that comes with experiencing tragedy. It was just her typically quirky way of getting a point across. In rare unguarded moments she confided her own life's tragedies - e.g., the death of her beloved husband, getting mugged in Boston (she rarely emerged from her apartment after that trauma), and her declining health in her last years.

Ondricek was also a great "confidence coach." She knew I was already, even as a teen, teaching beginning students. So one day she demanded to know, "Are you getting the 10% teacher discount from the music store?" When I said no, she ordered me back to store with these instructions (accompanied by quite theatrical gestures): "You tell them, 'I am MISTER Arthur Houle, piano teacher. Could you please give me the teacher discount?'" Madame Ondricek was not the kind of mousy personality that melted into puddles in the presence of greatness. She once told me of the time she bumped into Leonard Bernstein on the elevator. He asked, "Who are you?" Ondricek, apparently put off by his tone, replied, "Spaghetti!"

Ondricek was a staunch atheist. (This always brings to mind that one-liner, "I swear to God I'm an atheist!") Harboring no delusions of an afterlife, she asserted, "When you're dead, you're dead." This shocked me, for she was one of the most loving and giving people I have ever known. Over the years I have pondered this apparent paradox, wondering rhetorically: Let's say you have two children. One of them does good deeds naturally, like it's second nature (I imagine Gladys was such a child). The other will only be good if you offer rewards for good behavior and punishment for bad deeds. Which of these two children is truly the more moral? Food for thought, regardless of one's religious beliefs.

Ondricek's terrific sense of "joie de vivre" was infectious. She was, of course, quite severe on many occasions. But her criticisms were always accompanied by an underlying loving twinkle in the eyes, and never truly "angry." I appreciated this, for I must confess that I have always had, in the words of one witty friend, a "slightly warped sense of humor." (I denied this vehemently, heatedly countering that I always strive for "TOTALLY warped"!) What Ondricek and others imparted to me is that seriousness and discipline go hand in hand with fun and humor. I must be carrying this torch to my own students, for one of them penned this priceless tongue-in-cheek description of my teaching:

          "A lesson with Dr. Houle is an experience unto itself. Mix one part
          joy, one part nervousness, several parts demonstrations of elusive
          techniques, lots of cheerleading, and a good helping of music
          history and theory, and there you have it - a one hour piano lesson
          that goes by so quickly it feels like only three!"

Gladys Ondricek was a pivotal influence in molding me into the teacher and person I am today. I will always be grateful and cherish her memory.