There is a Piano in my House

In the sitting room of the house in which I grew up there is an old, brown piano. It’s an intimidating instrument, big as any piano is without being a grand, with a rich, robust sound. I’ve never known enough about music to be able to confidently say that it’s a particularly good piano, but it sounds enough like a good piano that I’ve never had any reason to believe it’s not.

There is a series of stories surrounding the piano that seem to accompany our family as we grew up. I’ve only recently heard the first of them (of how the piano came to live in our house) from my father; it’s the story of how the piano was acquired.

My godfather is man who, by various means, tends to end up with a tremendous number of things he neither needs nor (I suspect) really wants more than a little bit. His name is John. Once upon a time, he called my brother’s godfather and asked him to meet a truck in town. His name is Eanna. I remember, as a child, imagining Eanna to be a little unhealthy; he seemed to be just a little bit fat. It would later turn out that he was in relatively good condition, swimming the channel twice without his physical appearance noticeably changing.

So, after whatever minor conversation the two had, Eanna then proceeded to meet a truck in town, which will take him from there to a house, where he is to inform those present that he’d “come for the piano”. For a man built as he was, this probably seemed like a relatively minor task.

On his arrival at the door he was greeted by a young eastern European girl, who he immediately informed, “I’ve come for the piano.” In response, the girl burst into floods of tears. Her mother, doubtless querying the source of the girl’s upset, asked something (I’m not clear on this, but it seemed when I was told that the mother didn’t speak very much English). The girl replied with, “He’s come for the piano.” At this, the mother too broke down.

During this commotion, Eanna, in his infinite wisdom, managed to retrieve the piano. Despite the drama, I would come to suspect that John never really wanted a piano, at least, no more so than you or I might want a bowl of Rice Krispies. He had fancied learning to play, but ultimately his want for it was a transient thing.

The fact that best illustrates this point is that John would later ask my dad if he had space to store a piano for a few weeks. It’s still here, more than fifteen years later.

Essentially, that Piano has been in our house for as much of my life as I remember. The stories that surround it, as I said above, pretty much chart the family’s growth, or development, or whatever you want to call it.

I’m going to write a short series of stories/blog entries about the piano and the family, as they roughly relate to one another.

Marc “I don’t play the Piano” Mac