The Piano

Shrouded in white cloth, this basement its home for the last 7 years, I
said
good-by to my piano and moved to a new city.

Leaving behind memories of songs played, such as "Harbor Lights" and
"Amazing Grace", I wiped away a tear, knowing just how impossible it
would
be to move this heavy piece of wood and ivory keys up the many stairs
and out the doors of my in-laws house, which had recently been sold.

Not that it hadn't been done before. When my mom passed away, the only
thing I wanted to take with me was the piano. It had become, during
the last few years at my parent's house, a place to set photos and
knick-knacks on.
Its musical capabilities had been quietly forgotten once I had moved
out on my own. Sheer resolve and sentimentality propelled my husband
and I
to lift the piano into the moving van, drive it to his parent's and
with the
help of a strong neighbor, get it down the steps and into the basement.
Such great effort appeared to be wasted, though. Years went by, the
piano
stood neglected and quiet and out of key. When we finally covered the
piano with a white cloth for the rest of its stay there, I knew that I
was
burying a past that was becoming just a distant memory.

Before that, though, the living room had reverberated with tunes old
and new,
as I entertained my parents many a times during the supper hour.
I would make a game of it, playing a song and having my parents guess
what
it was. My dad, sitting in the lounge chair in the living room, would
sometimes
emit a muffled sob or let a tear escape down his cheek, especially when
I
played "Edelweiss". The haunting tune must have triggered something
in his German Roots or perhaps it was the depressive side of his
mental illness kicking in. Whatever the reason, the long term effects of
seeing that emotional display kicked up some deep blocks for me.
It has only been in the last few months that I can finally play that
song without
stopping and getting choked up or feeling memories of those days
envelope me. Now I can be more detached and in the "Moment" or
"Zone". Time heals, and the processing of some of these painful
emotions
was cathartic for me.

In so many ways, that piano was a therapeutic tool for me, and I was
able to lose myself
in the music and tune out the chaos of the family life I grew up in.
Sometimes, though,
my siblings would interrupt my trance into a universe only I knew about
and bully me and try to wrestle me off the piano. Perhaps it was
because I tuned them out during these times and they waned my
attention. Whatever the reason, it happened and often was a quick jolt
back into reality. When I was by myself, though, I would
dreamily imagine myself being a concert pianist someday. One of my
favorite memories was to open up the front door and blast out some
songs to the neighborhood, hoping someone would stop and be
an attentive audience for me. The piano became my friend and comrade,
and a way to let out some of my deepest emotions.

To be able to play this magical instrument, my sister and I took
lessons for several
years. I had an ear for music, I was told. My sister, on the other
hand, struggled a
little more, and did not seem to take the same interest I did in
playing. My first teacher
taught at the local piano store and showed me simple chords and
melodies from
a classical songbook. My first recital I played "SwanLake" and enjoyed
performing
for the small group who gathered there.
My second music teacher taught downtown in an older part of the city.
I had to
climb many stairs up a dim hallway to get to where my piano lessons
were given.
The teacher, an elderly man with wrinkled face and residues of alcohol
breath, played
in nightclubs and lounges when he wasn't giving lessons. I used to
wonder if he
was a bit tipsy when he taught me music, for he'd sway to the music
sitting next to
me on the bench, eyes closed and seemingly far away. But he had a
passion for
music, that was for sure. He taught me how to play waltzes, swings and
bluesy
rhythms by incorporating certain chords with my left hand. Ordinary
music transformed
itself into something uniquely special. These two piano teachers were
as different
as night and day but they both shared a love of the piano and that love
transcended
itself down to me.

When I wasn't taking lessons or practicing at home, I would spend time
"performing"
either for my parents or for my imaginary audience in some concert hall
somewhere.
Later on, in college, I stretched my boundaries and played the piano at
a nursing home. The residents there tapped their feet and sang along
to everything from " The Star
Spangled Banner" to "She'll be Coming Around the Mountain". It was one
of my
fondest memories, for I felt I was able to take something I loved and
share it with
others, perhaps bringing a little joyful distraction to their otherwise
rather mundane
lives.

I've been able to stay in touch with my piano playing since I have an
electronic keyboard that I can pull out when I feel so desired. I can
change tones
on the keyboard and it can sound like an organ, a flute, and numerous
other
instruments if I want some variety. I have been timid playing it for
fear of disturbing
neighbors. But lately a headphone has come in handy and now I can play
as loudly
as I want to and it sounds like stereo. Very nicely enhanced.

Well, that's the story of my piano playing life. It's been a great
outlet for my
creative passion and a healing, therapeutic vehicle as well. Though I
don't think
I'll ever be that concert pianist I had earlier envisioned, there is
the possibility
I might check out some nursing homes and see if I could play there. I
feel like
sharing my music with others and perhaps bringing some sunshine into
their lives.

Beverly Bronson March 2008