I’m a piano player.
That sounds really good, so I’ll say it again . . .
I’m a piano player.
My problem is, the only piano I can play is my own.
Maybe I should explain . . .
I’ve always loved the piano. I would sit and listen for hours to someone who can really play. Classical, modern, ragtime. You name it – I would happily listen.
In an effort to get to that level of expertise, I even condescended to taking lessons. Oh, not for very long. My ADD wouldn’t allow for any extensive concentration.
But for a while, about when I was 12, the piano and I were very good friends.
Fast forward several years, a marriage and a few children.
Husby, the kids and I were driving through Lethbridge, Alberta.
Suddenly, Husby made a sudden – and quite violent – right-hand turn.
I looked at him questioningly as I clutched at the door handle.
He merely pointed toward a white, hand-lettered sign tacked to the light pole we were just passing. It read: Garage Sale. There followed a list of items. Then, right at the end, someone had scrawled in large letters: Player Piano.
Okay, yes, I knew what a player piano was. Husby loved them. We had even tried out a few of the modern, electronic does-it-all-for-you types at local music stores. Then noted the (for us) astronomical price and fled.
This time, with a private seller, he must have been hoping our chances were better.
He was right.
It proved to be the home of a dear friend’s parents.
And soon the deal had been made.
We were the proud new owners of a player piano.
The story doesn’t end there.
Buying the great hunk of furniture and actually laying claim to it proved to be two separate stories. For example: The sellers had finished their basement after they had installed the piano. There was no way that sucker was ever coming out of there whole.
It took a piano expert to completely dismember our acquisition to get it up the stairs.
And that was merely the first hurdle.
From there, we had to figure out where to put the thing. We lived in a 14 X 24 house at the time. (I am not making this up.) We barely had room for us and our four children.
No great problem for Husby. He happily found a place to store it until we moved someplace bigger.
Perhaps that piano is the reason he found someplace bigger. I never thought of that.
Moving on . . .
Our sweet little townhouse in Edmonton, Alberta, soon had a proud focal point.
Our beautiful, oak, mahogany-jacketed, Heintzman, 1916, real-ivory-keyed, lead-piped, foot-pumping marvel of music-producing ingenuity.
And, for the first time - ever - I could play the piano.
More stories to come . . .