The Grand Old Piano

The baby grand sits in our living room, a Bush and Lane piano built in Holland, Michigan sometime between 1905 and 1929; the company closed shortly after the stock market crash. Bush and Lane was known for well-made and heavily-built pianos, and its movers can attest to the truth of that statement

 

This particular piano made its home in Wooster, Ohio, with a family whose children and grandchildren learned the musical alphabet on its keys, practicing their scales and classical favorites. Generations likely gathered around it to sing Blue Skies and Yes! We Have No Bananas (20s), Somewhere, Over the Rainbow (30s), You Are My Sunshine andThere’ll Be Bluebirds Over the White Cliffs of Dover (40s), and Elvis’ Love Me Tender and Patti Page’s The Tennessee Waltz (50s).

 

With the advent of television in the 50s, by the next decade, its boxy screen nudged the piano aside to become the centerpiece of the home, as families watched its shows night after night, or crowded around it for the parades and football games of Thanksgiving, Christmas and New Years Day. As happened in many families, when the children grew up and moved away, the baby grand piano sat idle most of its days, and at some point, the large amount of real estate it claimed in the home seemed too much for an inanimate object that was dusted more often than played.  

 

And so the piano was gifted to a place where its chords could be heard by many, but over the years, it was relegated to a common space where it became a bit battered and bruised. That’s where my path crossed with the Bush and Lane, and when it needed a new home, Ashlanders Bill Schultz and Neil Ebert lovingly maneuvered the grand old girl into our home on Walnut Street, where she nestled in the curve of our bay window. When we moved into a smaller home, I wasn’t sure if there would be a place for the aging piano, but we made room, and she shares our living room with my home office, as most of our “living” is done in the family room – where the TV resides.

 

The piano had been sharing her love of music with a couple of piano students, but the blasted Corona virus put a stop to that, so she’s been sitting quietly, waiting for what might come next in 2020. While she’s only six feet away from where I type this column, I don’t play her nearly enough, and she’s been pretty lonely.

 

Now, through a bit of detective work, the family who first owned this piano has discovered her again, and on Monday, her legs will be detached and she’ll be bundled into a moving van, returning to Wooster and to the hands of the little girl who loved her many years ago. Now, her strings will vibrate once again as she returns home. 

 

I’ve been asked, How can I let her go? I’m sure we’ll have our moments before the movers come, but what I recognize is that I’m not emotionally attached to this particular assortment of wood and wire. The family has offered a replacement spinet piano to us, which will fit much better in our smallish living room, and will allow for a few Christmas carols and some piano lessons “if the fates allow” and COVID-19 leaves us alone. I could have said no, but in this bleak midwinter, being able to bless a stranger with an act of kindness seems to be the right thing to do.

 

The piano and I have spent the last few days saying good-bye. I’ve played songs I’ve composed upon her keys, and choirs have sung along with the great hymns of the faith. I’ve also fumbled through the tricky progressions of Winter Wonderland, sung longingly of white Christmases remembered, and committed to having a “merry little Christmas,” even this year. And finally, “for the road,” I’m channeling Carol Burnett: “I’m so glad we had this time together, just to have a laugh or sing a song . . . [now] comes the time we have to say so long.” Thanks, old girl, for the memories.