The tradition lives on
Tonight, I have my grandparent's piano.
My mom's family loves music. My grandma sang, my aunts harmonized, my uncles played the guitar and my mom played the piano. That was all the entertainment they knew in the days of no television and no money for gas in the car. When my grandma remarried, she married a man who was also a lover of music, though he was less gospel and more rock n' roll. Which turned out to fit my grandma just fine.
All the memories I have of my grandma's house include "pickin' and grinnin'" sessions; my grandpa and uncles would play their guitars, my mom or grandpa played the piano and everyone else sang or danced. Knowing how important music was to her, my dad bought my mom a piano when I was very young, thereby continuing the "pickin' and grinnin'" sessions, even if it was only between mom and daughter. I was probably the only first grader in my school who knew how to play Heart and Soul. I took classic piano lessons for eight years, going to competitions with Beethoven, Mozart and other terrifyingly difficult "dead white guys" that were the foundation of classical music.
So many of my memories have piano music floating through them, for as I sat in my room and played with toys, or later drew sketches, my mom practiced. In the summer, the neighbors would come outside and listen to the piano music floating out of the open windows. I never knew a house without a piano - until I married and moved out. And it has always been one of those things that I miss. I don't play anymore - in fact, I've even forgotten how to read music. It's like a foreign language; you learn it, but if you don't use it, you lose it. When we first moved, whenever I would hear Christmas carols played on a piano I would burst into tears, full of homesickness. When I did come across a piano, I would avoid it; partly because I couldn't remember much of anything and partly because it opened up such a flood of memories and reiterated to me how different my life was from what I had known.
But when I would visit my grandparents, my grandma would always ask me to play. And I always told her I could only remember one little bit of one piece, but that was enough to make her happy. She always loved that she, her oldest daughter and her one granddaughter always shared this one thing; a piano. I hadn't realized it at the time, but music, especially piano music, became our connecting thread that linked us through the generations. It has become more than just an instrument of wood, ivory and strings; it has become a symbol.
When my grandma died a few years ago, she willed her house (it was only in her name) to my grandpa, with the understanding that all her possessions would be split amongst her children and grandchildren. Grandpa died two months ago, and there were power struggles and fights amongst those children of his deceased wife, his brother and his new girlfriend (who he willed the house to). The question arose at the funeral, "what will we do with the piano?" My aunt threw my name into the mix, knowing everyone else in the family had one. Grandpa's brother and girlfriend immediately opposed this and started arguing amongst themselves (as they did with ALL of the possessions, my grandpa's and my grandma's) whether she would keep it or he would sell it to help pay for the cost of the funeral. I didn't think anything else of it.
A week ago, my mom called to inform me that grandpa's girlfriend had decided to give me the piano. I couldn't believe what I was hearing! So today, my parents arrived for a weekend visit and they brought me my grandparent's piano. This 30 year old (maybe more) piano that's covered with scratches and water marks, filled with dust and is terribly out of tune, now sits in my living room. There are burns on the upper keys from where my grandpa laid his cigarette's down while he played. There are eternal marks on the top where school pictures of me and my cousins sat. One of the legs is loose from my uncle bumping his wheelchair into it. The smell that's permeating from this thing is that of my grandma's house, the smell that's been there since I can remember. The smell of my grandma's house is intermingling with the smell of mine. And as I sit here tonight writing this, I can almost hear her voice. I can almost hear his laugh from years ago, when they were both healthy and strong, before the years of chemotherapy, heart monitors and hospital bills.
I believe my aunt Vickie played a strong part in this, for which I am eternally grateful. Of course I am thankful to my parents for renting a moving van, getting it for us and bringing it up here. I am also thankful to my grandpa's girlfriend (much to my family's chagrin) that she acted from her heart. I'm thinking of sending her a thank-you card to let her know how much I appreciate it.
I have an old, beat up piano that's out of tune, dusty and scarred. And it's beautiful.
My mom's family loves music. My grandma sang, my aunts harmonized, my uncles played the guitar and my mom played the piano. That was all the entertainment they knew in the days of no television and no money for gas in the car. When my grandma remarried, she married a man who was also a lover of music, though he was less gospel and more rock n' roll. Which turned out to fit my grandma just fine.
All the memories I have of my grandma's house include "pickin' and grinnin'" sessions; my grandpa and uncles would play their guitars, my mom or grandpa played the piano and everyone else sang or danced. Knowing how important music was to her, my dad bought my mom a piano when I was very young, thereby continuing the "pickin' and grinnin'" sessions, even if it was only between mom and daughter. I was probably the only first grader in my school who knew how to play Heart and Soul. I took classic piano lessons for eight years, going to competitions with Beethoven, Mozart and other terrifyingly difficult "dead white guys" that were the foundation of classical music.
So many of my memories have piano music floating through them, for as I sat in my room and played with toys, or later drew sketches, my mom practiced. In the summer, the neighbors would come outside and listen to the piano music floating out of the open windows. I never knew a house without a piano - until I married and moved out. And it has always been one of those things that I miss. I don't play anymore - in fact, I've even forgotten how to read music. It's like a foreign language; you learn it, but if you don't use it, you lose it. When we first moved, whenever I would hear Christmas carols played on a piano I would burst into tears, full of homesickness. When I did come across a piano, I would avoid it; partly because I couldn't remember much of anything and partly because it opened up such a flood of memories and reiterated to me how different my life was from what I had known.
But when I would visit my grandparents, my grandma would always ask me to play. And I always told her I could only remember one little bit of one piece, but that was enough to make her happy. She always loved that she, her oldest daughter and her one granddaughter always shared this one thing; a piano. I hadn't realized it at the time, but music, especially piano music, became our connecting thread that linked us through the generations. It has become more than just an instrument of wood, ivory and strings; it has become a symbol.
When my grandma died a few years ago, she willed her house (it was only in her name) to my grandpa, with the understanding that all her possessions would be split amongst her children and grandchildren. Grandpa died two months ago, and there were power struggles and fights amongst those children of his deceased wife, his brother and his new girlfriend (who he willed the house to). The question arose at the funeral, "what will we do with the piano?" My aunt threw my name into the mix, knowing everyone else in the family had one. Grandpa's brother and girlfriend immediately opposed this and started arguing amongst themselves (as they did with ALL of the possessions, my grandpa's and my grandma's) whether she would keep it or he would sell it to help pay for the cost of the funeral. I didn't think anything else of it.
A week ago, my mom called to inform me that grandpa's girlfriend had decided to give me the piano. I couldn't believe what I was hearing! So today, my parents arrived for a weekend visit and they brought me my grandparent's piano. This 30 year old (maybe more) piano that's covered with scratches and water marks, filled with dust and is terribly out of tune, now sits in my living room. There are burns on the upper keys from where my grandpa laid his cigarette's down while he played. There are eternal marks on the top where school pictures of me and my cousins sat. One of the legs is loose from my uncle bumping his wheelchair into it. The smell that's permeating from this thing is that of my grandma's house, the smell that's been there since I can remember. The smell of my grandma's house is intermingling with the smell of mine. And as I sit here tonight writing this, I can almost hear her voice. I can almost hear his laugh from years ago, when they were both healthy and strong, before the years of chemotherapy, heart monitors and hospital bills.
I believe my aunt Vickie played a strong part in this, for which I am eternally grateful. Of course I am thankful to my parents for renting a moving van, getting it for us and bringing it up here. I am also thankful to my grandpa's girlfriend (much to my family's chagrin) that she acted from her heart. I'm thinking of sending her a thank-you card to let her know how much I appreciate it.
I have an old, beat up piano that's out of tune, dusty and scarred. And it's beautiful.