We got a new piano last week, and I have a renewed interest in playing. We had been making due with a hand-me-down piano that really should have been put out of its misery years ago, but, hey, it was free. The kids practiced on it for 11 years, but every time I would sit down to play, I derived little joy. The touch had never been very satisfying; some of the key tops had come off; a few hammers were missing, so we couldn’t play a high F; and it just didn’t sound that good. Finally, two weeks ago, Edwin said, “Mom, I really can’t play on this anymore. My pieces are too complex, and it just isn’t working.”
Chris and I started our search in earnest, and within a week, we had a new used Yamaha gracing our foyer. It’s a gleaming ebony, professional height, and the hammers have all been refurbished. I can’t walk past it without sitting down and playing a little something. I opened up a book from my childhood and noted the date my piano teacher had assigned me various pieces. This particular book is full of dates from 1984. They bring back memories of me practicing on my mother’s Chickering baby grand in our living room, which she still plays to this day.
Maxine printed off songs from Hamilton, and we’ve been working on “Dear Theodosia,” among the many Beethoven, Czerny, and other classical pieces we’re practicing. We actually end up fighting for the piano at times. I wonder how long that will last.
My Corner of the Village 