Peoria, IL. My mother fractionally siphoned off weekly grocery
money for the big purchase. In the days of yore it took a long time to pay off
a Baldwin Acrosonic spinet—a quality piano with ivory keys. At my wee age of six,
I was clueless that 1958 was the last year Baldwin used the same guts as they
did for a baby grand. My new French provincial piano with real ivory keys now lived
proudly in the family living room.
Mom chauffeured me to a weekly piano lesson at Bradley
University where I learned the key of middle C first, followed by the others.
Right-hand plunking preceded both hands in unison— the musical baby-step equivalent
of reading about Dick and Jane. Mom listened proudly on the worn mahogany bench
outside the door, expecting the next piano virtuoso to appear at the end of my
half hour.
Later I humbly performed my awkward plunking for Dad who sat
beaming at his “little pigeon” and hearing Beethoven. I was proud of my
accomplishment of stroking the white and black keys into a short primitive song.
My lessons continued.
Over the years and numerous piano teachers, my lessons
remained a staple. We moved from Peoria when I was 10, and like “carnies” for every
two years thereafter. Finding a new teacher was high on mom’s to-do list. Some were
good, some not. A favorite of mine was a cool guy in Columbus, OH who started
to teach me jazz. I related to him unlike my other “old lady versions” of teachers.
The new sheet music inspired me, and adored this new genre more than any other.
He taught me improvisation. Then we
moved. Again. Piano in tow. I was saddled with another old lady. However, with Mrs.
Glenn my solos were more accomplished, I mastered classics such as The Toreador
Song (Carmen), preformed in recitals, and enjoyed my new skills.
From house to house, move after move, my piano was like
another appendage and I couldn’t imagine life without it. In Wheeling WV, I was
16 and my teacher Marlene was not much older. She was fun, but she couldn’t
reach me. At that age, I had more interest in hanging with my friends—and boys.
I stopped practicing and was merely drove myself to the weekly drudgery. I decided to stop
the lessons despite my mother’s disapproval—the end of my piano education. The
piano lived silently in the house until I married and moved out.
I got sole custody. When my daughter was born, I vowed to
teach her the keyboard, but life and time won out. Until piano teacher Jim came
to the house weekly. However, the lessons were short-lived. Cassie learned the
keyboard and to read music but the lessons got lost as we both succumbed to adolescent
growing pains. Again, the piano silently lived with us passing it daily without
a remorseful glance.
Pittsburgh 1981. The piano was back on the van for another
long distance move. I played occasionally on a whim, but most of the time it
sat silent and taken for granted. The move in 2003 relocated it to our new
home’s lower level where it stayed for nine years.
Early 2013 and moved again. Amazingly, the old girl is still
in good condition and every key still plays, but she now lives cramped in my
art studio and desperately needs to be tuned. I haven’t played in years but I’m
sad at the thought of selling her. She is part of my life history. And she is worth much more than anyone is
willing to pay for a 1958 Baldwin Acrosonic piano with real ivory keys. I could
donate her, but the possibility of her living alone, dusty and rotting in a basement
is unbearable. I visualize her with a family—in a loving home with a
child—eager to learn and to hear music coming from their own small hands plunking
out notes. A child dazzling their daddy, who is imagining Beethoven. So until
then she will live with me in my studio where at least there is music—even if
it’s not coming from those real ivory keys.