The Piano

by Beth Alexander Walsh

     My father was a stoic man. He was a hard worker and great provider for his wife and six children, but mostly a silent presence behind his newspaper. However, when he sat at our old black upright piano, with chipped ivory keys, he became very engaged. Most of the songs he played originated before World War II, and I knew every single one of them by the time I was five. I was the youngest and my father’s favorite singing partner, carrying the melody to his tenor harmonies. The playlist was always the same, pulled alphabetically from a thick yellowing songbook; the notes were disregarded, because my father played by ear. Every holiday in our house ended with huddled groups of singers around that old piano.

     At age five I started lessons along with my sister, who was fourteen years my senior. I was not a chord player like my dad. Painstakingly, I would translate the notes from the sheet music, until I learned the song. When my sister moved out, the lessons stopped and I, to my parents' chagrin, chose to play the violin. If you have ever heard a second grader scratch out “Twinkle, Twinkle” on the violin, then you understand my parents' regret.

      In 1979, when our black upright became unplayable, my dad purchased his first brand new piano. It was probably the most extravagant purchase of his life! It was a Kohler & Campbell upright, with a pecan stained finish. Unlike the old black piano, which used to reside on a small porch, the sleek new instrument, with its polished wood grain, took center stage on a wall in our living room. A brass piano light appeared at my father’s next birthday, along with updated sheet music, with printed chord changes, given by my mother, who hoped to add show tunes to his repertoire. By then I had moved on to the flute, eventually giving it up while attending a high school with no music department. To this day, I still regret not continuing those piano lessons.

     My dad’s playing became a solitary exercise after we all moved out to pursue our own lives, but every holiday would gather us back around the piano, now with babies on our hips, while their Grandpa pounded away at the keys. As my dad’s health deteriorated so did his time at the Kohler and Campbell, and after a short ten years of ownership, he and his piano parted ways.

     The piano, missing its owner, sat untouched for several years, until my mother put their large Dutch colonial up for sale. When she started to divide household belongings I immediately asked if I could have the piano. For several years I had contemplated the room in my house that it would grace. She smiled at me as if she had been expecting my request, and the piano was moved to its destination against our living room staircase.

     As my own children began to arrive, I envisioned all of them sitting on the piano bench, pecking out the notes to “Mary Had a Little Lamb”. It wasn’t until my youngest child entered kindergarten that any interest was shown. My son took to lessons immediately, understanding the language of music with ease. He went on to play in his high school jazz band and several other groups, and now writes his own compositions. He has surpassed his grandfather’s ability, and his tenor voice, sounding so much like my father's, is an echo from my childhood.

     The upright piano has now been in my house for twenty years, its pecan finish slightly faded and the bench now replaced with a sturdier version built by my husband. It still produces a glorious sound whenever my son touches its keys, sharing a bond with its original owner, and bringing back memories to me of the man he never met.