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.
