Better
This morning I took a few hours off from work because I had an appointment to have my piano tuned. I will not confess on the internet how long it had been since I last tuned it. The piano tuner, a very charming Russian man in his mid-50s or so, was scandalized when I told him. "You don't like your piano very much," he said, half teasingly, half sorrowfully. I said, "I do like it--that's why I keep bringing it with me whenever I move. I just get out of the habit of playing."
After that he worked for a little bit and we didn't talk. I sat on the steps that lead down into my living room from the dining area and watched him as he took the piano apart and examined a couple of the keys that were not working at all. At one point, when he got up to get something out of his bag, he said to me, "I can see that this piano was tuned in 1970." I thought he was harassing me some more about how long it had been (not that long, don't worry), but then he said, "The tuner left his initials." I said, "No way," and he said, "yes, look," and there it was, a tiny inscription on one of the keys, initials and then the date, 12/70.
"1970," I said. "That was the height of my piano playing time." The piano tuner laughed, getting that I was being a little dramatic, or rueful, or superior to the 12-year-old who was so dedicated to the piano. But then I told him all about being that age and taking piano lessons and how my father, who worked nights and so was home in the afternoons, would pick me up after school and drive me to the piano teacher's house and then my mother would pick me up afterwards. "It's a lifetime memory," he said, and it's true.
Seeing that inscription inside the piano, which I never knew was there, felt like a gift, a secret road back to that time. Also a connection to my mother, who has been gone for a long time, as I have written here before. She was the driving force behind my taking piano lessons in the first place and also, I am sure, behind the purchase of the brand-new Yamaha upright in 1967 to replace the used piano I had started learning on a couple of years before, when I was seven.
Now the brand-new piano is over 40 years old.
After the piano tuner finished his work, he played a few bars of music, something pretty and show-tuneish. I sighed with pleasure.
"Sounds good, yes?" he said. "It's a lovely piano."
"Yes," I answered. "It is."
After that he worked for a little bit and we didn't talk. I sat on the steps that lead down into my living room from the dining area and watched him as he took the piano apart and examined a couple of the keys that were not working at all. At one point, when he got up to get something out of his bag, he said to me, "I can see that this piano was tuned in 1970." I thought he was harassing me some more about how long it had been (not that long, don't worry), but then he said, "The tuner left his initials." I said, "No way," and he said, "yes, look," and there it was, a tiny inscription on one of the keys, initials and then the date, 12/70.
"1970," I said. "That was the height of my piano playing time." The piano tuner laughed, getting that I was being a little dramatic, or rueful, or superior to the 12-year-old who was so dedicated to the piano. But then I told him all about being that age and taking piano lessons and how my father, who worked nights and so was home in the afternoons, would pick me up after school and drive me to the piano teacher's house and then my mother would pick me up afterwards. "It's a lifetime memory," he said, and it's true.
Seeing that inscription inside the piano, which I never knew was there, felt like a gift, a secret road back to that time. Also a connection to my mother, who has been gone for a long time, as I have written here before. She was the driving force behind my taking piano lessons in the first place and also, I am sure, behind the purchase of the brand-new Yamaha upright in 1967 to replace the used piano I had started learning on a couple of years before, when I was seven.
Now the brand-new piano is over 40 years old.
After the piano tuner finished his work, he played a few bars of music, something pretty and show-tuneish. I sighed with pleasure.
"Sounds good, yes?" he said. "It's a lovely piano."
"Yes," I answered. "It is."
posted by Sarah Sometimes at 12:05 AM
8 Comments:
awwww!! I LOVE this post! And I kind of miss my "real" piano back home in Brazil. I will never, ever have it in my house if I live here for the rest of my life. Oh well. I have never really enjoyed playing the piano, but I hope my boys really and truly do. I think they're on their way to that already, phew!
Awwwe! What a sweet memory. I was going to say I never learned to play the piano but I did when I returned to college in 2000! LoL HOW could I almost forget that??
See, we had a piano at home starting when I was 13 or so. My younger sister took lessons but I never did. Why? Because my mom said she didn't want to force anyone to take them and if we wanted to, we'd ask. I just didn't think about it! LoL
Anyway, I was surprised I could learn and I wish I still could play. Maybe I'll have to take lessons again.
Thanks for the idea. :)
Mary Ann
aka Joy (my blog is mostly abounded but I may start another soon. :D
Okay, now we *have* to visit you.
Okay, now we *have* to visit you.
that is such a sweet story. love the detail of the date and initials of the last tuner.
nice as well that you remember your mother so fondly, and the lifelong gifts of the piano and the lessons.
Lilian: yes, I guess moving a piano from Brazil to anywhere in the States would be an impossible task! Glad the boys seem to be taking to the piano. And thanks for the comment.
Joy: Thanks, glad you liked the post and found it possibly inspiring.
jo(e): Thought you'd get the message!
clowncar: Thank you!
What a lovely story!
It may make you feel good to know that my piano hasn't been tuned since then, either, I'm sure, and it's been moved across the country, and into about 4 houses and 4 apartments (of varying temperatures) since then. Somehow it's managed to still sound okay despite all that, but it needs some love.
Hi Todd--yes, that does make me feel better!
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