The Shrinking Piano

     My early memories center around visits to my maternal grandparents who lived on thirteen acres of grape vineyards near Fredonia, NY.  After Daddy pulled into the circular driveway, my sister and I could barely wait to get into the front parlor where the player piano stood in residence. The piglets, assorted kittens and Grandpa's milk cow would just have to wait.

     Enjoy this 58-second video to get an idea how that piano operated. Note the punched holes in the paper roller.  Just one paper tear could create disturbing dissonance.  (The hairy legs are a bonus.)

     Now let me tell you a story about what happened to Grandma's piano.  Grab some kleenex: it's a tear-jerker.
                                                 
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       A truck pulled up to the curb in front of our house on North Academy Street. I ran to the picture window, a new addition which was my mother's pride-and-joy, and peered out. "Grandpa," I cried. My little sister was right behind me.

      He’d done it! He brought us the piano! My adoring heart jumped in my chest.  Last week when we visited the farm, I didn't think he meant it.  I thought he was just kidding when he'd asked,  "How’d you like a piano?" His eyes twinkled like a kid's.  Grandma would say, "Oh, Herman" when she saw that twinkle.  She knew he was usually up to some mischief.

     It was a monstrous ancient instrument with big pedals. Heavy mahogany with ivory keys, its very presence suggested a time when Victorian ladies came calling, when gentile manners required gloves and hats, when time passed like a tintype photograph - in slow motion with hints of dusty shadows. My sister and I, only five and four, struggled with huge sliding doors to get into the front parlor. Our legs were too short to push the pedals, but we badgered big folks to make the roll turn so we could hear the music. Now Grandpa was delivering this magical instrument to us, just like he said he would.

     Mother, wiping her hands on her apron, joined us at the window. "Oh, no," she exclaimed. "That piano will never fit in this house." She rushed out and down the porch steps to greet her father. My sister and I held our breaths as we followed her. She couldn’t ruin it all. Somehow, Grandpa prevailed.  With the help of a friend who’d made the sixty mile trip with him, he heaved and hauled until that piano was resting right there in our dining room, at the bottom of the stairs where we’d see it first thing every morning.

     At the supper table that night in the kitchen, the piano stole the conversation.
     "Frank, we can’t keep it. It’s taking up way too much space in the dining room. I had no idea that he‘d actually follow through and drag that monster over here, " Mother said.
     Dad listened, then said, "But the girls do want a piano.  We've talked about lessons with Miss Graves."
     "Well," said Mother, shaking her head.  "I’ll just have to find something smaller. Maybe I can trade it."
     Kay and I looked at each other, wondering what the adults in our life were planning. What was going to happen to our piano?

     Not long after that conversation, another truck backed into the driveway. Two muscular men trudged into our house. Pointing to the player piano, mother said, "That’s it. Hope you can manage all right." Amid much groaning, swearing (‘Scuse me, ma’am) and bossing, they wrestled that piano out of the house as my sister and I sadly waved good-bye.

      "Just you wait," Mother said.

     From the dark depths of that delivery truck, those men lifted out a different piano - a dainty spinet, all polished wood to blend in with our living room furniture.  The keys were white plastic, not ivory - very modern and fashionable. It was no problem for those Popeye-like guys to march that usurper into our house. The new piano was much smaller than the departed gift from Grandpa. It looked like a little kid trying to stand in for a renowned stage actress. How could we ever forget our beloved player piano?

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     That spinet still sits in Mom's living room.  It made the trip when my parents moved to a renovated farm house high on a hill near Fredonia.  It's been part of many family gatherings, accompanied many "Happy Birthdays", and treated assorted guests to mini recitals, duets and dance tunes.  But it never replaced Grandma's piano in my heart.

     By the way, when you walk by a piano, touch middle C and hum. Store that note in your computer brain.  You can teach yourself to have a sense of pitch.

     I'd love to read about one of your musical memories. Hope your week is harmonious.
     Donna