I work on a lot of pianos with no objective value, and yet the very same pianos are sometimes the most valuable. You can't assign a "value" to nostalgia. Encountering a piano that “was my grandmother’s in the 40s,” or, “my brother and I took lessons on as kids,” or, “I bought for my late wife as a wedding gift,” is all too common, and it’s led me to this question: how to pianos gain such a stronghold on our hearts? There are plenty of objects that hold memories for us, so why are pianos so hard for people to let go of? I had an experience the weekend before last that I think cracked it for me…not that I needed my own experience to understand or believe it, but it helps, when you’ve been unable to articulate any answer for so long.
On June 17th, my parents had their dog put down. It was time. Clara was still herself, but she wasn’t always happy, and she was hardly ever comfortable. I felt really torn about the fact that Chris and I had already made plans to come up and visit. Was I scared to say goodbye, so up close and personal? Or was I grateful that I’d have the chance to actually say goodbye – something I, for myriad reasons, have never had the privilege to do with any of my other childhood dogs. Clara was the last of these, so I concluded that I’d be grateful.
I actually ended up going to the vet with my parents (Chris stayed at their house with our two dogs). I’d already had a couple of minor breakdowns that day – one of them out of indecision about whether I wanted to go along at all. In that moment, my mom said that it would be like bearing witness, to honor Clara. That helped me feel more decisive.
My parents and I sat in the back of their car with Clara, waiting for the vet to come out, and reminiscing. Tearfully saying how much we’d miss her ears (she had the world’s best, most softest ears) and laughing when she half-heartedly started chewing on my mom’s shoelace …and *sniff* this paw was the hugging paw! …and remember that we named her after “Clair de Lune,” because that was the song I had been learning on piano at the time? (*giggle* Clara da Looney *sniff*)
We all snuggled Clara as she fell asleep, three familiar and comforting scents, surrounding her. I hope that helped. When the end came, I didn’t feel like I was just bearing witness to the end of a life – I was bearing witness to the end of an era…two, in fact. This was the last dog that had shared my parents’ home with any of the four kids in our family, before we left the nest empty (well, empty excep for dogs of course). Not only that, but it would be the first time my parents would be without a dog since August of 1983. What would their old farmhouse feel like without the tippy-tapping of paws on the hardwood floors? What would distract them with comic relief when something else terrible happened out in the world? I can’t remember ever seeing my dad cry like that (I’m sure he had, but not around me).
I felt a little too much like an adult at the moment…barely two weeks after my 30th birthday, being a part of a very grown-up responsibility that no one really likes to talk about when they first get a dog…crying together with two adults who raised me, like friends, sharing grief, comforting each other…
For the next day and a half or so, it would randomly hit me again, but with a little less potency than at first, as if I was looking at the grief from afar.
On Sunday before we headed home, I decided to sit and play a little piano.
I hadn’t played my parents’ piano in months. It’s a little spinet that my dad got as a one-year anniversary present for my mom. My siblings and I all grew up taking lessons on it (sound familiar?). Generally speaking, I think most piano technicians wish spinets didn’t exist. Baldwin Acrosonics, especially, go on and on and on, when you usually just wish they’d fall into the ocean. My parents’ piano is an Acrosonic, but it’s got a surprisingly good sound for its size and age, and I’ve always found it much more comfortable to tune than my clients’ spinets. I couldn’t possibly be biased.
The piano needed tuning, but I had time to play or tune, and I chose play. I picked up my mom’s copy of a Debussy anthology. The front cover has been missing for as long as I can remember, but I knew what to look for amidst the haphazard piles of sheet music on the floor. For Christmas one year, I had it rebound and the covers laminated, as a gift for my mom.
I flipped to “Clair de Lune.” It’s easy to find because the first page is somehow slightly slipperier than the rest, as if numerous people have turned to that specific page countless times….I don’t have the muscle memory that I used to for that piece, and it doesn’t help that my hands have gotten a little bigger. But some of it came back as I played. And if that lapsed, my old piano teacher’s familiar handwriting was there in front of me, reminding me when to lift the pedal and which fingering to use on page two.
The spinet’s keystrokes were shallow, light, and familiar. I remembered how I’d begged my parents for a dog after our lab, Ella, had died. Eventually my mom was ready, and along came Clara. We had an exchange student from Germany, Max, living with us that year. We’re still in touch.
I’d memorized the first measure of every page so I could turn the pages myself when there was a convenient moment – don’t want to miss a beat (that choreography only works with this book – the one
I have at home has page one on the left-hand page, not the right, so everything gets thrown off). I remembered how Clara’s #1 nickname became “Clarence,” thanks for my brother-in-law, Robert. I don’t know why it stuck but it did…maybe it's because Clarence is a fittingly distinguished name for a Queen of a dog (albeit a very stinky queen).
The piano’s in a different room than it used to be, but it feels the same. By the end of page three I was crying. I don’t know if I played the end with the appropriate rubato or control that I practiced back in 2009, but I finished playing with a heart full of memories, wet cheeks, and a runny nose.
So that’s it. As much as technician-Tessa doesn’t want to admit it, my parents’ piano has my heart. Months ago, I was commiserating with a colleague about the lengths people will go to (a.k.a. the painstaking and often unrewarding work that we have to do) to not let go of their family piano. At time I was feeling cynical about it, but then I told him, “I guess don’t know what I’d do if I had to decide what to do with my parents’ spinet when it bites the dust.” As I said it, I thought of that little old piano not being played or used or loved anymore, and suddenly I got teary and choked up. I didn’t understand why at the time, but I do now.
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