It's Too Late Now

The saga of the piano ended today.

A few entries back I wrote about the Hardman and Peck upright that I had for fifty one years. My parents bought it on time, when I was a wee one in the Bronx. I took lessons for many years at my request. I was told that I had the skills of someone who could be concert quality, but by the time I became a teenager and pressures were being put on me to be outstanding, I lost interest in developing expertise.

But the piano held its attachment to that time and place. My dad paid for it to come to me in California when I moved here. It was the only piece of furniture I owned and that purely by adoption.

A couple of years ago, around the time, maybe just before, I was retired from my job, I considered revisiting my long ago talent. I'd take lessons. But then I looked at the dents and scratches, many from my many pets, on the beautiful mahogany. If I were to do it, to play again, I wanted to refresh the instrument, give it, instead of me, a facelift, the two of us being nearly the same age.

So, I contacted a piano tuner, and renovator. I asked him if it was worth it for me to fix it up; were the works amenable, or had they been terminally affected by moving, lack of play, and climate. The man looked and said that it was worth it. And so off the piano went to the place of rejuvenation. When it returned, there was a problem in tuning it. There was, it turned out, some problem with the pin board.

And so the piano was whisked off again, to be repaired, which I understood, I thought, to be a major job and one he would have to do for free, essentially, because I had begun the process on the promise of it being worth my while. I knew it was expensive, but I did not question his integrity.

When the piano returned again and he tuned it, I went about my business, only occasionally playing it, and noticing that quite quickly some of the keys in the lower octaves were already out of sync. But since I was not a regular practicer I did not contact my tuner and ask any questions. I think I hoped that what I imagined was not the case.

And then I moved it to my new residence. With the help of Starving Students it went all the way up the stairs of my non-elevator condo building. It looked wonderful, all spiffed up, the cherry brown mahogany reminding me of the expense I had poured into it to make it new again.  New residence. New resolutions.  The Djinn will play again!

And so, I decided to get the piano tuned again. Probably looking for an independent opinion and thus without providing the history of the work I had contracted before, I let him set about his work. And in about five minutes of less he said that the piano could not be tuned, it would not hold one.

And so, I revealed the last efforts I had made to fix it up; and he told me that what may have been done is that a short cut was taken to fix the pin board to which the strings are attached. They might have used this solution that supposedly fixes the cracks and allows everything to tighten, including the strings on the large pins on the board.  I was not surprised. I had worried a shortcut of some kind was taken as I had not paid for that repair, made necessary by the promise that it was worth my otherwise renovating the furniture part of the instrument.  That alone had cost some 1800.00, the price of a cheap used piano.

I was told that I could rebuild the board and fix the strings for about 4 to 5 thousand dollars. I was left with a useless piano, well, except for the memories which it carried, many to be sure.  I remember where it sat in my old bedroom, up against the mirrored wall in which I could see my too often sad face, unhappy with how puberty was dealing with me. I remember playing The Aragonnaise, with fervor, over and over; the Moonlight Sonata, the metronome ticking and ticking, a beautiful piece I no longer have.  I remember the practice for the many concerts at the Mount, and one or two at these strange conservatories, where the only light was on the piano I played and the small desk of the grader of my technique. Most of all it connected me to a nuclear family, my father, and my mother and me, that ended all too early when my mother died at the age of 48 in 1974, while I was a sophomore in college. It connected me to a time and place of relative innocence, before technology and distraction. And so, I kept it.  For many months more.

And then, after that half a century of having it in my possession, I decided to have it taken away. I found myself removing pieces of the wood, the top, the portion that opens to reveal the keys, and the center board over the works, perhaps for shelving to be made, but as a remnant to assist my memory. I took off the keys. I kept middle C and C sharp. And then I called around to find who would take it back down the stairs and to parts unknown.


It was a costly endeavor as no one will for free come up and down stairs with a piano. Moving people won't dispose of it. Suffice it to say I found assistance, for a dear enough price, but my Hardman was worth it, even at the end.

As I stood on the street with the men who would place it in a junk truck, I felt a pang of regret. Maybe I should have spent the 5,000.00. It's not like I don't waste money on other things in my life. But already I had spent a great deal to fix it up, and there would be no guarantee that it would take this time, right? And the man, the piano tuner, said that it was one thing or another, get a new one, or fix this one. Would I even really play it. I haven't practiced in years and years, and what makes me think I'll do it now, another resolution broken.

And then a few women in a single car saw it, and noted how beautiful it still was, even with the keys gone, and parts of the wood gone. I told them about the problem with the works. This was a clear case of looking good but not being able to do what it was made to do. I felt justified. And then not. What kind of person abandons such a beautiful old friend after so long?

And then she said, "I think that another piano will come into your life." 

I don't know. Is it a piano I want, or need?  I have my dad's mandolin, and a guitar. Perhaps that would honor him. And it's an easier instrument to carry around.

I have shed a tear, or two, even though the absence of my upright made room for the rest of my furniture in the living room.  But this is another change that seems to be necessary.

Things are unfolding as they should; in any case, as to this piano, it's too late now.

















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