The piano

October 15, 2011

I quit piano lessons when I was 12.  Apparently, I had too many other pressing engagements. 

My teacher was gentle and soft spoken, with a thick German accent.  Her family had fled the Holocaust when she was a child. She had the serenity of someone who had found peace in a chaotic world.    

She lived in a big house at the foot of a hill.  It was flipped from the traditional, with the bedrooms on the ground floor, and the living space on the top so you could see the view from the big windows that circled the house. 

I can still remember climbing the spiral staircase to her living room.  I’d never seen a spiral staircase before.  To this day, I want one based solely on that experience.

I remember playing Mary Had a Little Lamb in time with the metronome and the teacher’s clapping.  She had old lady hands, like my grandma.  I loved my piano teacher, and I liked my lessons. 

I don’t know why I quit.

I can no longer read music.  I’m hoping it comes back to me quickly.

A few months back, I put an ad in the paper looking for a used piano to buy.  I received nine calls.  Some people even offered to give us their piano! 

We looked at several beautiful old pianos that I’d have loved to bring home.  But there just isn’t room in our little house for an enormous antique.  

I’d had in mind the narrow, simple uprights found in school music rooms.  

My husband agreed that the smaller the better.  He was on board with the piano idea.  He was not thrilled with the prospect of getting it in the house.

I settled on a small Cable-Nelson.  Based on my Google research, it was probably built in the 50s or 60s.  It isn’t top of the line or bottom of the line.  It is ours now, and I love it.

Once I’d made my choice, I harassed my husband endlessly to pick it up.  He reminded me that a piano isn’t something a guy can just throw in the back of his truck by himself.  He had to recruit a team of guys who like the idea of getting a hernia.

Last week it finally arrived.  The piano now rests awkwardly in our living room next to the TV.  It will stay there until we rearrange the furniture to make room for it in a less conspicuous location. 

My plan is to learn to play it with my son.  I have fantasies of many happy memories made over the keys, mother and son laughing as we learn together, filling our house first with simple tunes, evolving as our skills improve to play beautiful duets.

When I told my husband about my piano daydreams, he patted my arm and said, “You’re so cute.” 

Deep down I know it’s more likely that the piano bench will be the site of many arguments over finishing piano practice before going outside to play. 

Still, there is something homey and comforting about having a piano in our house.  Every day when I walk in the front door, there it is smiling at me, inviting me to pick up where I left off 23 years ago.

This article first appeared in the Lewistown News-Argus and the Sidney (Mont.) Herald on October 15, 2011.