We bought my son’s family a piano for Christmas. This is in keeping with a family legacy—that of being the church pianist. I come from a long line of musicians, dating back to the Pleistocene Era. Centuries later my ancestors crossed the plains with their baby grands strapped to their backs in search of a place where they could practice without the neighbors complaining.
I was exposed to the piano early on. At about three years, I became fascinated with the instrument, pounding on the keys and learning of its inner workings by literally tearing it apart (no kidding). Many a happy hour I spent sitting among the keys, contemplating the meaning of life. By the age of five, I could strip and reassemble a piano in 16 hours and 36 minutes, minus nap time, which is not bad for a kindergartgener.
From there I took 22 years of piano lessons, spanning from grammar school through college. I even enrolled in multiple remedial note-reading classes to no avail. My training produced what I refer to as a “musical mutant.” I can’t read a note. Obviously, I did not inherit the piano gene.
I have since learned to accept and live with my disability. I try to compensate by playing the guitar by ear, which I am pretty good at. This makes me indispensible at camp fires, hoot-a-nannies and sit-ins. But it’s not the same.
One day, my loving husband and twelve of his burliest friends delivered a very heavy piano to our home. I was delighted! Clapping my hands and squealing with glee, I dragged out my old piano books, the ones that I had labored in vain to master so many years ago, and played my most impressive pieces. Then I found my hymnal and played some of the tunes I dearly loved. The lyrics spoke of faith, endurance, and other laudable virtues of no interest to the average college student.
Overcome by the joy of musical expression, I went to my husband and embraced him, manifesting my deep appreciation for the gift. His reaction was not what I anticipated; “You know, you always claimed that you couldn’t play the piano. But then again, you always claimed that you couldn’t play the guitar. But you really can’t play the piano, can you?”
The point is that, just like every other all-American parent, I would like to fulfill my unmet dreams by living through my children and grandchildren—ergo the Christmas piano. My sincere wish is that the piano gene occasionally skips generations and one of my posterity will be another Victor Borge. (The one on the right. Look him up on U-Tube.) 
As hoped, the little family was delighted. Bess, my daughter-in-law played some tunes, the kids plunked away on the keys, inventing their own tunes, and even I gave it my dismal best.
Later that day, my youngest son, David, called to see how our Christmas was unfolding. He asked about the gifts and, as expected, I told him about the piano. “ALL my children will receive a piano for the grands to learn to play and the parents are expected to provide piano lessons,” I imposed. “Hey, Sheena,” David bellowed, “If we find a kid, we get a free piano!”
He’s missing the point. I anticipate some cookin’ piano-guitar jam sessions in the near future. But even if a virtuoso is never produced, maybe we can dismantle the piano together and consider the meaning of life as we sit amongst the keys, just like old times.
The tall one is my husband, only he was never that young.
The tall one is my husband, only he was never that young.
wiping his nose while sitting on his sleeping bag at the same Father and Son outing at which one of the guys (was it Jared?) barfed in his sleeping bag. Notice Micah's blankie in the background. Way to bond, guys.
wiping his nose while sitting on his sleeping bag at the same Father and Son outing at which one of the guys (was it Jared?) barfed in his sleeping bag. Notice Micah's blankie in the background. Way to bond, guys.
