We inherited a piano from my mother. It’s an upright originally manufactured in Toronto by Gourlay Pianos. My grandmother, a nurse by profession worked a lot of overtime to make sure my mother had a piano to play and my mother was clear on one thing: despite her decision to downsize, the piano was staying in the family.
As well as being one of the more conspicuous pieces of furniture in a house, a piano is dripping in sentiment. It is music. And I am the worst for that kind of gooey, schlock. That might help explain my immediate offer to take in the recently orphaned instrument.
My mother plays quite well, but infrequently. Growing up, I played not so well, being self-taught and unfortunately, more frequently. But Christmas was the real bootcamp for this piano. My best friend, Christine insisted my mother play her entire repertoire of festive sing-a-longs, and then a few rounds of Five Hundred Miles (her personal favorite) for good measure.
Sentiment aside, a piano is serious business. It’s a real commitment to accept into your life. Once you say yes to a piano, you can’t just toss it downstairs in the storage closet if it doesn’t work out, sell it at your next garage sale, or throw it in the trunk of your car and dump it off beside the donation box at your local Salvation Army.
It means that you are committing to piano lessons, to paying for lessons, to handling struggles that come with lessons. You are committing to upkeep, to tuning. In our small home, we are committing a small chunk of prime real estate and we may be committing the final act of hari-kari with what is already a fragile link with one of our neighbours - unfortunately, the ones with whom we share the wall that the piano is now residing.
Then of course, there is Bridget and her future relationship with the piano. Clearly, she is not a musical prodigy, if singing is any indication, but playing an instrument (in my mind) would be so cool. Then again, she might (in her mind) hate the piano and take up the tuba, or more likely rock climbing or roller derby.
Nonetheless, I am preparing for an imminent love affair. Sigh.
Well, whatever happens, I am ready. I even purchased my first “For dummies” book to review fingering and scales. Frankly, I don’t know why I was ever reluctant. I learned quite a bit including some great readiness clues.
For the vast majority of non-prodigal children who start with right-hand only versions of Chopsticks, there are a few key factors to determine piano readiness. It’s not necessarily age.
Apparently, If children can: sit for 15 minutes, count to 10, recognize A, B, C, D, E, F, G and show some interest in the piano, well, they are ready to go.
We’re not quite there yet, but we might be. One day. Or maybe not. I am willing to wait. Love takes time.
In the meantime, it turns out; my mother has resurrected her inner Billy Joel. It seems, in her case - absence has made the fingers hungry. She can’t stop playing the piano, now that it’s in our home. She sounds better than ever, so I’m probably going to have to book her Christmas gig early this year. Or buy her a piano for Christmas.
