In the mid-1970s, when my mother was very ill, I stayed with my Aunt Norma, who lived about 40 minutes from our rural home. Her little town had something our farm didn’t: concrete sidewalks. As a farm kid, I thought they were magical—straight lines, no rocks, no cow pies. I’d ride my bike for hours on those smooth paths, feeling like I’d entered a new world. Which, in a way, I had.

But something even more life-shaping happened on those visits.

Aunt Norma (Norma Collins Sollenberger) had moved from Nappanee, Indiana, to this small Pennsylvania town. While the scenery changed, her sense of direction didn’t. She had a kind of cheerful boldness—the kind of woman who’d walk into a room full of tradition and start rearranging the furniture… with a smile.

She helped end the practice of separating men and women during church services. She played the saxophone in church, which was probably enough to make the deacons clutch the pearls they didn’t wear. She was something.

She also had a piano.

I don’t remember much about it—just that it was probably a spinet—but she noticed something in the way I played. I could mimic songs by ear, and she paid attention. One day, she picked up the phone and, in her classic no-nonsense tone, called my mother.

“Bertha,” she said. “You need to have Frances take piano lessons.”

That simple, commanding sentence changed everything.

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Before long, I was walking down the sidewalks from Aunt Norma’s house to my first piano teacher, Mrs. Helen Gartside—one of my mother’s best friends. Between her snow-white hair and jolly laugh, she made lessons feel like visiting Santa’s favorite aunt. I’d sit at the piano, she’d play a piece, and I’d play it right back—no practice, no pressure, just applause. Looking back, I probably wasn’t learning much theory… but I was definitely having a great time.

But then came the best part of the experience: a can of Pepsi.

Every time I stayed at Aunt Norma’s, she offered me one. Just one. It felt extravagant. We didn’t have soda in cans at our house—maybe the occasional syrupy homemade root beer that never fizzed (sorry, McNess).

I don’t know why, but that Pepsi always made it feel like Aunt Norma was rich. Maybe it was the packaging. Maybe it was the generosity. Maybe it was Memphis (if you know, you know 😉).

Come to think of it, maybe it was destiny—there’s a Pepsi plant right in Newville. Some kids grow up near coal mines or cornfields… I grew up near cornfields and carbonated dreams.

Either way, I felt special.

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Eventually, I was transferred to a new teacher: Mrs. Houser.

I never knew exactly why my mother chose a new piano teacher and frankly, those details never seemed to matter to me—until recently.

At one of my Portraits of White Christmas concerts in 2023, Mr. Houser—who used to hover quietly in the background during my lessons—filled in the missing piece. According to him, my mother wanted me to learn to read music so I could eventually play with accomplished musicians—the kind who could read music.

I love that my mother had the foresight to do that. It must have taken a ton of courage to discontinue my lessons with one of her best friends and find a new teacher.

Mrs. Houser quickly figured out that I was relying on hearing the music instead of reading it. She stopped playing pieces for me and made me learn the notes. I struggled—but I grew. She gave me a new set of tools—ones I’d need years later when I found myself sitting at the piano with a full orchestra behind me. I didn’t lead it—I hired a conductor—but I had to hold my own, following the written musical maps.

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Mrs. Houser, now in her 80s and facing health challenges, remains a quiet cornerstone in my life. I carry her lessons with me—along with the kind words her husband has faithfully offered over the years.

When our duo, Double Keyed, was nominated for “Best Instrumental Album” by the Central Pennsylvania Music Hall of Fame (and later won “Best Classical-Crossover Album” of 2022), it hit me harder than I expected. Not the award—though that was lovely—but the weight of it. The reach of it. The way it echoed back through decades of practice, people, and perseverance.

With my mother gone, there weren’t many who would truly understand the depth of that moment.

But then—I thought of Mrs. Houser.

I picked up a bottle of sparkling grape juice (because choosing champagne still intimidates me—and honestly, nothing will ever top a cold can of Pepsi at Aunt Norma’s), and drove to her house.

We never opened it. We didn’t need to.

She understood.

And I think she was proud.
The kind of proud that doesn’t need words or corks or ceremony.
The kind that sparkles quietly—like the pearls the deacons didn’t wear.

A few months later, she and Mr. Houser surprised me by showing up at the Central Pennsylvania Music Hall of Fame awards ceremony. I felt like my mother was in the house.

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Now, at 58, I’m taking piano lessons again. (Because what else do you do when your duo is preparing to record with the London Symphony Orchestra?) I told my new teacher, “I haven’t had a lesson since 1984.” Gulp. Yet here I go—dreaming big, practicing like crazy—for what feels like the biggest adventure of my musical life. Actually… maybe of my entire life.

She’s already been a gift to me, building on Mrs. Houser’s foundation. In one of our emails, as we exchanged thoughts on practice philosophy, she added this gem at the end:

P.S. “Amateurs practice until they get it right… professionals practice until they can’t get it wrong.”

It stopped me in my tracks. And then I went back to the piano.

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Recently, around a breakfast table at a women’s retreat, I found myself sharing this story in response to a question a group of curious women asked: “How did you become a professional musician coming from such a conservative background?”

It was a good question.

It started with Aunt Norma.

She didn’t just offer me a place to stay.
She saw something.
She said something.
She gave me an opportunity.

If you want to change a child’s life—be someone’s Aunt Norma.

Observe. Speak up. Provide a path. Affirm.

Sometimes all it takes is one person, one sidewalk, one spinet—and maybe a single can of Pepsi.

P.S. My new teacher? She’s invited me for coffee—the new Pepsi, I suppose. 😊

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About Frances

Frances Drost is a professional musician and author whose journey started with a small-town sidewalk, a spinet piano, and a bold aunt who spoke up. Her book, Portraits of White, and her musical duo, Double Keyed, continue that journey—bringing light and inspiration to others.

Learn more at FrancesDrost.com

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