The Old Piano

“Just think of the stories it could tell, if only it could talk.” I was speaking of the massive oak piano that has been in my mothers life and mine since 1890. It has always been with us. It moved when we moved.

The old piano replaced a pump organ my grandparents had on the ranch just outside of Goldendale, Washington. In 1888 (or 1889) my grandfather finally made enough money on his wheat to afford some of the luxuries in life. Verona, his youngest and only daughter, was just two years old: it would take a year to deliver a piano, by then she might start learning to play.

In those days drummers or sales men traveled the country with their brochures and promises. A piano drummer caught my grandfather after the fall sale of his wheat, Grandpa was in a generous mood & ordered a Lester, cabinet grand from Philadelphia.

A telegram was received from Portland, Oregon: the piano to be delivered to one, John Atkinson, Goldendale, Klickitat County, the Oregon Territory --- this new State of Washington was not completely organized by 1889. Mailing address would soon change.

And so the long journey began. Bright and new, weighing one thousand pounds, the ornately carved oak upright piano was hoisted in its wooden crate, off the Philadelphia dock to a ship that would take it out through the Delaware Bay, South to various ports for freight and passengers, on through the uncertain waters of the Caribbean to the stifling port of Colon on the Isthmus of Panama. There the passengers disembarked for the disease-infested, two week horseback journey across the isthmus to the Pacific Ocean, there, to be picked up by another ship.

The freighter with its cargo continued on by sea for months: on around South America, through the dangerous Straights of Magellan and Cape Horn, North to San Francisco. Most of the freight and passengers left the ship there, after all, there wasn't much on up North from there. There was a piano. It continued North to the mouth of the mighty Columbia River and the city of Astoria. Crossing the uncertain shoals and up the Willamette River to Portland, the crate was transferred to a barge that navigated the two rivers up to The Dalles.

Months had passed since Grandfather had ordered his piano. Sometime in 1890, Grandfather was notified: he could take delivery of the instrument at The Dalles.

A team of four horses pulled the wagon that crossed the Columbia on a flat bed ferry and eventually made the return trip, with its heavy burden.

Verona, my mother, was introduced to the piano, she was three-and-one-half years old. By 1896 she was riding her pony eight miles into Goldendale for private piano lessons. Always smelling of horse after such a ride, her teacher would humiliate her by insisting on a good wash before touching the teacher's piano.

The lessons paid off. Verona played well, family and company dinners ended with everyone around the piano, singing hymns and the popular songs of the day, such as “In the Shade of the Old Apple Tree” and “The Old Oaken Bucket.” Dancing was frowned upon, but the younger generation found ways, and managed to put together a band, a fiddle, and a mouth-harp, with mother keeping time on the piano. Dancing was fun, there wasn't a lot of fun to be had on the ranch.

In 1917 Mother married Daddy. They took the piano back to Portland this time by train from The Dalles. During World War I it played “There's a Long Long Trail a Winding,” “Over There” and “Roses of Pickardy.”

Daddy worked in the shipyards. Two of Mother's brothers died in the flu epidemic. They couldn't even get a doctor to come and see them.

The piano moved to Redmond, Oregon to a happy little house, then back to Portland to a flat, as apartments were sometimes called. A baby was born: the piano moved into a shiny new, more or less permanent home on a quiet shady street in Portland.

The times of the 1920s spoke of the Charlestown and speak-easies. Carpets were rolled up & dancing parties were the order of the day, with short skirts, bathtub gin, and home-brew. The piano rang out jazz.

We were often moving from one job to another, all over the Northwest and the piano always came with us, no matter the cost & trouble. It went up narrow stairs to apartments, it went into lovely, big rented homes, sometimes it went into small three room shacks. “We Had Music Where Ever We'd Go.”

The 1920s meant prosperity: the thirties meant depression. My piano lessons became sporadic and our moves less luxurious. Songs changed to happy fantasies or ‘Brother Can You Spare a Dime?” Mother and I knew them all.

Oh, how I struggled with “The Indian Love Call.” We had moved the piano again, this time to a little town called Grotto in Washington.

1936, back to Portland, in the old homestead, the piano played beautiful ballads like “Star Dust,”, “Deep Purple” and the clever “Donkey's Serenade.” Everyone sang “God Bless America” and worried about the unrest in Europe.

School and then marriage kept me from the piano, but Mother played snappy tunes like ‘Manana” and “You Com-ona to My House.” December 7th, 1941 meant war, “Off We Go Into the Wild Blue Yonder.”

The piano sounded as good as new when I'd suffer through Beethoven's Fifth --- Da Da Da DA --- and the Piano Concerto #1 by Tchaikovsky.

Once every five or six years we had a blind piano tuner check it out, he would always say, “They sure don't make pianos like they used to.”

During the busy way years I was gone and Mother was busy with Red Cross and war volunteer work. The piano frequently sat idle.

When my family started to grow and we had a house of our own, Mother insisted the piano move in with us.

Shipping it from Portland to Seattle was an expensive business but, we thought nothing of it, after all, that piano was one of the family.

Little fingers again began to learn its secrets - reluctant fingers that preferred to be outside with the gang. Simple tunes and scales filled the air.

When there was time I would work on that darned concerto #1. I never did master it.

Radio and then TV eliminated the song fests around the old piano: a busy like with no play time relegated the old friend to a forgotten corner.

Christmas was one time it was exercised. “Silent Night,” “Jingle Bells” and “Deck the Halls” stumbled through the house.

The new songs sounded strange; occasionally a new piece of sheet music made its way to the piano, a movie theme, Rodger Williams pieces, “Falling Leaves.”

Again we moved the old piano, to a new house, this time, 1957 was the year. Today in the year 1990 [the year this essay was written], it sits in regal splendor on Mother's Oriental carpet in our entertainment room. It sounds just like the grand piano it has always been, it just isn't played often now.

The old piano out lived Mother.

The old piano is over one hundred years old.

If only it could talk.