BY MICHELE MILLER
What’s What New Port Richey
“Do we have to take the piano?” the old man was asking for what would be the last time.
It was March of 1991 and we had too much stuff to fit in the rental truck he’d be driving the next day as we embarked on the big move south.
Like pioneers contemplating what to dump from their weighed-down covered wagons at some treacherous crossroad, we were standing in the front yard of our New England home, making some hard, last-minute decisions about what we could do without.
The piano was a no-go, but the old man knew that already.
I’d had the old upright longer than him. Got her when I was about 11-years-old. She was a dream come true for a kid with a musical yearning and a better talent for the written word.
I took lessons for awhile. Nothing much came of it save for a passing pleasure that provided an escape during my awkward teenage years, and irked my elder siblings when I took to pounding the keys in the wee hours of the morning after they’d been out all night clubbing.
They grew to loathe Beethoven’s Fur Elise, I’m sure. The Entertainer, too. And probably, Send in the Clowns.
The piano was a magnet of sorts – a gathering point during family and friendly parties. She livened up holidays as more talented musician friends took a turn, others belting carols and maybe a little Crosby Stills and Nash while raising a glass or two.
“Our house, is a very, very fine house…..”
The Stroud piano had her own story and some well-earned wear and tear.
She started out as a player piano, created sometime after the Stroud company was established in 1910 in New York, as an offshoot of the prestigious, Aeolian Piano Company.
Click here to see a demonstration video of a Stroud Player Piano (not the writers) in action.
We never knew that part of her.
Somewhere along the line her insides were gutted, leaving the player foot petals and “instrument panel” – remnants of an earlier purpose, perhaps in some other family’s living room or drinking establishment.
PHOTO|KASONDRA MILLER
The prior owner was a local piano teacher, a single mom who earned extra money teaching lessons to neighborhood kids. Before that, she told us, the upright served as a practice piano for a pianist in a city symphony orchestra. His Boston apartment was tiny. The upright fit the bill.
My parents paid $20 for it – had to press the money into her hands and insist. She was just happy to see it go to someone who appreciated it, she said.
Many did.
The upright had a rich tone that surprised the tuners and teachers who would often stay awhile longer to play for the simple pleasure of it.
Voice Lessons
“That’s one fine instrument,” they would say.
“Better than the grand piano I play at the club,” the voice teacher told us.
The piano offered introduction and opportunity to create music for countless toddlers who pulled themselves up onto her wooden bench to tinker and bang.
But then a lesson-taker or someone with “an ear for it” would take a turn and we’d count that joyful noise as another blessing she brought to us.
To be sure, the upright was unyielding in size. Finding a proper wall could be tricky. In a more practical sense there was always a place for treasured family photos, knick-knacks and nativity scenes come Christmas time.
She was battered a bit over the years. Her strings were pounded out of tune. A couple of the ivory keys peeled off, and needed replacing. Candle burns damaged her finish, tell tale signs of the 25th anniversary party the kids held for us. One of them scribbled on her side in a fluorescent green crayon that I never had the heart to wipe off because that is life- a sign of the way times once were.
PHOTO|MICHELE MILLER
By the time we made the momentous migration from Massachusetts to Florida the piano had moved 6 times; the old man always steady at the helm, leading a handful of trusty and unsuspecting friends through some back-straining maneuvers.
We moved a few more times after landing in Florida. The kids added new lesson books to a pile that still included an archaic copy of the John Thompson beginner I started out with.
“Off we go to music land…”
The ninth move would be the last, we figured.
Until the tenth came along.
This time the old upright was going alone. For once, the old man was off the hook.
I felt a bit of a lump in the throat and a tad teary, as the piano movers hoisted her onto a dolly, rolled her down to the street and into the moving trailer.
It’s the kind of feeling that comes with sad but good endings. After more than 50 years it was time for us to part ways.
But she won’t be all that far out of earshot.
Our two granddaughters have an affinity for music it turns out, and so it comes to pass that our old piano fits nicely against a proper wall in their new home in Tampa.
Now is their turn to play. Or tinker. Or bang. 🙂
Now, onward.
Another beautiful memory so well written. Great job, girlfriend!