When I was very young, we would visit one of my aunts in Indiana who had an upright piano. I was fascinated by it, and my mom decided that one way or another, she would get a real piano for me. The toy one I got for Christmas wouldn’t do. Listening to the local radio station one day, she heard a woman call in saying she wanted to sell her piano for $50—first come, first served. My mom was on it!
My uncle and my dad loaded it into my uncle’s pickup truck, and my dad pretended to play it as they drove. We lived on a busy street, but they managed to stop out front and get it up the front stairs of our bungalow. It went along a wall of the dining room, and I loved it. There weren’t any other kids in our neighborhood to play with, so I spent a lot of time practicing that first year or so.
When we moved to another house, the only place for it was in the living room. After playing outside with the neighborhood kids (yay!), I would go inside to practice, but by then someone in the family wanted to watch TV. I stopped taking lessons after two or three years, but I formed some good memories with that piano.
I can still play the very first song I learned. I think it was called “Jumping Frog” or something like that. In high school, my flutist friend and I played “Color My World” by Chicago. It felt good to play with someone, and neighbors complimented us. My last memory of really playing that piano was before I got married and moved out of my parents’ house. I was “grandma sitting” since the rest of my family needed to go somewhere. She listened while I played every song I knew. I made a lot of mistakes, but she either didn’t notice or didn’t care. She passed away a few months after my wedding, so I’m glad I had that day.
The piano was eventually moved to another family member until they no longer wanted it. After my parents moved in with my sister, my mom paid to have it moved across state lines. Friends and family occasionally played it there for a couple of decades. Our parents have passed away, and my sister recently asked if I minded if she got rid of the piano. Despite its different homes, everyone still thinks of it as mine. I told her it was okay with me. It is 100 years old by now and not in good enough shape to donate, so they are slowly dismantling it and throwing it away.
It is a little sad, but an upright piano is a lot more difficult of a family heirloom to pass down than a grandma’s locket or a great-grandpa’s hammer. Memories are the real value of heirlooms. When I think of my piano, I think of how much my parents and my uncle loved me by buying it and moving it, I remember how I took solace in that first lonely house without friends nearby and the feeling I had with my new neighborhood friend and her flute. I think of the gift of time I gave to my grandmother, and I think of the nieces and nephews who continued to play it long after I moved away. One thing is for sure, we got our $50 worth!