Life of Pi-ano

“Some folks grow up around ponies, beaches, sailboats, rosary beads, or with an effusive auntie. I, on the other hand, grew up with and have always lived with pianos. I don’t know why, since neither of my parents were musicians (nor am I), but from birth until now (my elder years), I’ve always had a piano in my surroundings. My siblings and I don’t recall how it got there, but an upright Stroud piano has always resided in the Schenectady, New York home in which we were raised. Being a bit fanciful, I’ve long suspected that my life’s insistent piano theme had something to do with the fact that I would one day marry a musician; it’s my hunch that my familiarity with music (though not my proficiency), gave me a leg up when it came to my prospective spouse.”—Kathryn E. Livingston

Words & Wonder

By Kathryn E. Livingston

BOGOTA New Jersey—(Hubris)—March 2024—Some folks grow up around ponies, beaches, sailboats, rosary beads, or with an effusive auntie. I, on the other hand, grew up with and have always lived with pianos. I don’t know why, since neither of my parents were musicians (nor am I), but from birth until now (my elder years), I’ve always had a piano in my surroundings. My siblings and I don’t recall how it got there, but an upright Stroud piano has always resided in the Schenectady, New York home in which we were brought up.

Being a bit fanciful, I’ve long suspected that my life’s insistent piano theme had something to do with the fact that I would one day marry a musician; it’s my hunch that my familiarity with music (though not my proficiency), gave me a leg up when it came to my prospective spouse. When he asked me (on one of our very first dates) to Tanglewood Music Center in Lenox, Massachusetts to hear Mahler’s Fourth Symphony I confessed, “I don’t really know Mahler. But I do love Debussy and Ravel.” I wasn’t trying to impress him; it was simply the truth.

From the age of seven until my senior year of high school, I took piano lessons. A lovely divorcée who lived a few blocks away with two Steinway baby grands, schooled me on Prokofiev, Bach, Beethoven, Mozart, and other greats, and though I didn’t excel on the instrument, I became conversant. My parents never nagged me to practice but became reverently still on the occasions when I did (predictably, half an hour before my lesson).

Thus, when I began dating an aspiring professional clarinetist, I knew a bit about the topic of music. It also may have helped that my grandmother had played the piano at the silent movies while her father ran the projector, and, when I was a child, she’d often pop into our home and sit herself down at the piano bench for a buoyant romp; as her fingers flew over the keys one could easily imagine racing horses or Model-Ts.

But none of this really explains why, after my husband and I married in 1977, I insisted that we purchase our own (used) Wurlitzer piano which then (at a cost in cash to us and in back pain to several lean young men) had to be lugged up to our fifth-floor walkup in Washington Heights, then carted down to the fourth floor when we moved to a larger apartment, and then, finally, driven out to New Jersey in the back of a pick-up truck when we moved to the suburbs.

It didn’t make any sense, but not to have a piano didn’t make sense to me, either. And so, I told my husband, “I absolutely must have a piano in my life.” This was a peculiar demand, given the fact that I rarely played, as writing and mothering soon replaced the meager time I once spent tickling the ivories. But a piano made me feel at home wherever I was. A piano just sits in a room, “holding the space.” It occasionally beckons, but it doesn’t force itself on anyone (though at Christmas time, I occasionally feel the need to bang out some carols). The fact is, I can still play and once in a very great while, I do. A piano’s presence lends the possibility of music.

Alas, when our eldest son was three, he grabbed a wooden spoon and swiftly lopped off the ivory tips of each and every Wurlitzer key while I was chatting on the phone. (This is the sort of activity that toddlers engage in while their mothers are preoccupied.) Nevertheless, the piano could still be used so we signed the kids up for lessons, and for several years I listened as our three sons passionately pounded away. (This paid off: our youngest became a composer of electronic music.)

At one point, a dear elderly acquaintance graciously offered us a second piano—a Baldwin. Not wanting to insult her, I accepted the gift and for a time we squeezed both into our modest living room. Eventually, I gave the damaged Wurlitzer to a friend with a young daughter who wanted to learn (she intended to repair the keys). I miss that piano still, and I also have an affinity for my childhood piano (which a well-meaning relative stained “antique” green sometime in the late 1960s). This was a trend, much like “distressed” area rugs are now. (A pity, as I’m already distressed, and don’t need my rugs to be.)

Today, I still have the Baldwin. It’s a handy place to display photos and vases, though the intact keys are rarely touched (and should there ever be tiny tots with wooden spoons aka grandchildren, those keys will be well guarded). When I gaze at the piano I feel as if I’m in the presence of a dear old friend. We’re simply comfortable together, and neither words nor notes are necessary.

More: To read more of Kathryn E. Livingston’s work, write her at [email protected], or order her books by clicking on these links: http://www.livwrite.blogspot.com, http://www.kathrynlivingston.com, and https://www.facebook.com/kathrynlivingstonauthor.

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