For a while, I thought those things might mean the same thing.

Then I got old enough to notice the difference.

When I was fifteen, I started spending my afternoons at the local community center.

They had a small music room with two battered guitars, an electronic keyboard, and a computer that could record sound.

The volunteer who supervised the room was a retired music teacher named Mr.

Bennett.

He had thick glasses, a permanent coffee stain on his shirt pocket, and more patience than anyone I’d ever met.

The first time he heard me play, he leaned against the doorway and listened without interrupting.