Back when Eden was a baby and Liberty was two, we lived in South Dakota. I owned a beautiful antique player piano. When our home’s buyer wanted the piano, Blaine said it came with the house. He didn’t want to move it to Pennsylvania.
Turns out, pianos are heavy. Really heavy.
For thirteen years, I haven’t had another. Today, I got one.
I might be slightly giddy. I had four years of lessons in elementary school. I have so much to learn. But I shined up my new-to-me Craigslist freebie, and ignored the three dead keys that it turns out are more annoying than I thought they’d be, and made a mental note to hire a tuner. I took toothpaste to the brass pedals, Murphy’s oil to the wood, and I’m hoping I’ll be in this good of condition when I’m 100 years old.
I’m still working to learn guitar. I stink at that. But I remembered remarkably more than I expected when I pulled out a hymnal and picked out a tune on the piano. It was rather satisfying.
The kids might be a wee bit excited as well. I totally sounded like my mother when I forbade them to touch those foot pedals and make their chaotic noise/pounding sustained.
Now I have to rearrange pictures on the wall.