learned to sing carols in German
Grandpa would give us a quarter
apiece for performing though
only Carol could carry a tune…
—from “Stille Nacht, Heilege Nacht” by Peter Meinke
The old piano is dying. Our trusty piano tuner came around last month, as he does every November, and did his usual plinkplunkplonking over the yellowing keys, getting us ready for the traditional holiday music. As he gave us the bill, he said with upfront sorrow, “In all honesty, I think it’s not worthwhile for you to pay me for tuning this anymore. Nothing left in there to tighten or splice.” It’s not one of the smaller styles — spinet, console, or studio — but a dignified Kimball upright, dark brown, weighs a ton. It has an elegant carved frontispiece, and feet that look like chipped classical columns, which makes us think it was made in the late 1880s or 1890s. But we don’t know. It arrived at our house unannounced while we weren’t home.
In a surprising coincidence, both Jeanne’s mother, Ruth, and my mother, Kathleen, were wonderful pianists. Jeanne and I suspect our stubborn “creative gene” — that early itch to draw and write — stemmed directly from them, bless them both. When Ruth was young, she played classical concerts on the radio; Kathleen gave piano lessons for most of her life. A piano was a natural piece of furniture in our houses as Jeanne and I grew up in our respective towns: Rainbow Lakes, NJ, and Brooklyn, NY.
After we moved into our cottage in Driftwood, I (apparently too often) complained about not having room for a piano. Although my playing skills were never high enough to get me a job in a dank bar, I could read music, and enjoyed picking out folk songs and, around this time, Christmas carols. So, one day Jeanne and I came home from an extended trip, opened our front door — and there loomed this domineering piano, taking over our small living room like a Trojan horse. A short note from our kids said, in essence, Here it is: deal with it!
It was a crazy idea (and what an effort it must have been for the youngsters!), but we were deeply touched (sometimes we say “doubly” touched, as the children hadn’t completely paid for it). Of course we kept it. The piano fortunately was on rollers, and eventually, by taking out a door, we tucked it neatly against the windowed wall in Jeanne’s rectangular studio, which consisted of a sturdy table, a file cabinet, a good light, and some built-in bookshelves. And now a large piano.
The studio soon became the second most communal room in the house (the first being the dining room). After dinners, we and our guests often gathered around it to sing. This being Florida, our casement windows were usually open, and we could serenade passersby with “Underneath the Lantern,” “Molly Malone,” and, at Christmas time, “O Little Town of Bethlehem,” and all the usual suspects. Some of our friends were fine singers, soloists, and members of choirs who could make a joyful sound no matter who was playing the piano. We even serenaded Larry, the lizard who lived on the windowsill behind the piano. We couldn’t reach behind it to catch him and set him free outside, so Jeanne left saucers of water so he wouldn’t starve; occasionally he’d peek out to listen judiciously. He seemed to live, for a lizard, a long and happy life.
We had some gorgeous times around that old piano. Now, with some impairment of my never very flexible hands, combined with its own disabilities, our Kimball mostly sits in stoical silence, except when visiting children give it a poke.
It’s still beautiful.
Certain melodies can break your heart
just seeing them on the page their plump ovals
bobbing like sea gulls on the surface
of some moonless tide…
—from “Minuet in G” by Peter Meinke (both quoted poems from Liquid Paper: New & Selected Poems, Pitt Poetry Series, 1991
This article appears in Dec 22-29, 2016.