Pianos

I’d been walking past the tidy grey stucco bungalow for years. Way before the pandemic pacings. And yet, before today, I’d never seen anyone in the house or outside of it. I’ve always been curious about who lives here.

            Why?

            The piano.

            It sits sweetly in the front alcove room, a baby grand with its lid up. No music on the stand, no one seems to play this sweet little piano. It looks so forlorn and empty. It wants to be played. Doesn’t it? I don’t know. But I do wish that someday, I’d walk by, and hear the sweet music from its keys. Chopin? Bach? Debussy?

            So, today, as I’m coming up to the grey house, I see someone out front watering the brown lawn. Immediately I think of the piano. Is this the pianist? He must be. Of course, I have to stop and ask him.

            At first he’s hesitant, focusing on his watering. I think, drought, dude, but don’t say anything. Instead, I ask, “Are you the pianist?”

            He nods, a little leery of me? I’ve been careful to maintain social distancing. I’m well over 6 feet away. But people are scared. Rightly so. The Virus is on the rise again.

            “Yes…”

            “I have been walking by your house for years and always have noticed your sweet piano in the window, but have never heard you playing.”

            He begins to warm up, “Yeah, well, I’m a saxophonist. The piano, I tinkle around on it. By ear. Even though I can read music….”

            “Cool….what kind of music do you play? Jazz? Blues?” I just assume this as a guy thing. Playing jazz by ear on the piano. But it is an assumption. Maybe he plays Mozart Sonatas.

            “That’s right,” he nods. “Jazz….I was in a jazz ensemble for years. Played around the Bay Area. I used to live in Piedmont. Rented this place out. But then, moved back here. With the piano, it was my grandmother’s. I like to keep it near.”

            “Yes, I understand,” I nod. “I have my mother’s baby grand. I will always keep it near.” And then I think of my own grandmother. She played a heavy upright. Church hymns pounded out on its keyboard. I remember sitting next to her and absorbing those big bass chords. Her singing along. It was magical. Later, when she moved out of this house in Whittier, into the condo in Oceanside, she still had the piano. I remember visiting one day, decades ago. She asked me to play something for her. I played the Moonlight Sonata. I remember this so vividly even today. And it isn’t like I have ever played much Beethoven, but I must have memorized that first movement for a recital because I just remember sitting down at the keyboard and playing for Gram. And she was so appreciative, clapping when I’d finished.

            So, today, when he mentions his gram, I wonder what she was like. I can imagine her in some grand old mansion in Piedmont with ancient fountains and ruby bougainvillea. She’d sit at the piano every afternoon and play Chopin’s Nocturnes. Their melancholy melodies floating over her tangled garden patio. Her touch was gentle; she felt the music. She closed her eyes and let Chopin sweep her away…..

            But I don’t ask him about her now even though there is an opening. I’ll save this query for next time. Or maybe not. I’ll just let my imagination keep her where she is.

            “It’s so nice to meet you finally,” I sign off, starting to walk on.

            “Yes, you too,” he beams now. A fellow musician. We have that in common. It is a bond that musicians share. The love of music. How it can create this immediate affinity for each other.

            “I hope I hear you ‘tinkling’ the keys soon,” I grin, starting to walk.

            He nods, but doesn’t answer, turning to hose another section of the brown lawn as a noisy mockingbird swoops down from his rooftop into the birch tree and warms up with a loud, boisterous song!