The Piano: Memories of My Grandmother

Running my fingers across the keys of the old upright in our entry way, I produced an out of tune rendition of "Bells Are Ringing"; the only Beethoven in my paled repertoire. It is the only song I know besides a two handed Chopsticks. I stare at the chipped and yellowed ivories, longing for my fingers to produce a flowing sonata. If only I had inherited her talent. I would be able to bring her piano back to life the way it used to fill the room with a beautiful mixture of single notes and chords.

My grandmother was a large boned and buxom woman of German descent, one of a pair of twins raised on an Iowa farm with a strict and conservative Methodist upbringing. She came out to California on a train, met a man, married at a late age, and bore my mother who was to be her only child.

My mother's memories are of a strict, highly moral, conservative woman who forced her to play her violin on demand for company when she was young. My own memories of my grandmother are centered mostly on her piano. I do remember other bits and pieces like her Jell-O fruit salad with those blood red maraschino cherries and tomatoes with cottage cheese and pepper (all of which made me gag). In her back yard was an enormous avocado tree that hung to the ground and formed a cool, dark cave where we would hide while playing cowboys and Indians. I can still envision the Lawrence Welk Show with that cute dancing couple Cissy King and Bobbie Burgess; a mainstay in her home on Sunday nights on her old black and white Motorola set. And of course there was her patience in teaching me the game of Solitaire. She always had patience with me. What touched me the most was her quiet connection with animals exhibited whenever our cat climbed up to rest on top of her rather large bosom while she sat in our rocking chair. The cat would purr and knead her chest with its front paws while she stroked its calico coat from head to tail. She used to sit in her backyard in a swing underneath a large oak tree and hum church songs while a pair of Blue Jays would alight on her shoulder and eat crackers from her hand. The first time I saw this happen I stood peeking behind a tree with mouth agape. At that moment my grandmother shared the same plane in my child's mind as Snow White in some far away magical forest.

My most vivid memories however, are centered round her piano. Even to my young and untrained ear she played beautifully. We never asked her to play; instead we waited quietly on her round braided throw rug at the foot of her piano stool while stacking Lincoln Logs. We never fought when we visited her house. There was something so quietly intimidating about her that little children immediately transformed to angels in her presence. Rules were seldom broken in her home. I remember looking wide eyed at her when I had done something "wrong", certain that this was God himself sitting on her shoulder, shaking his head and looking so disappointed. Everything about her demanded respect.

After preparing and feeding us a well-balanced lunch, with both yellow and green vegetables, she would clean the kitchen and head for her piano bench. She would remove her apron and start out with a few songs from her church hymnal undoubtedly to remind us to whom our thanks belonged. Then she would break into a classical piece and end with some upbeat sing-a-longs. The woman I witnessed at the piano was an entirely different being. Her music reflected the lighter side of her soul. I loved that side. That side laughed and rocked with the rhythm. That was the side that made me feel happy with all in my life.

I vividly remember the day that she was buried. I was barely nine and did not realize the finality of death. I felt void of emotion as I tried to cry along with all those grown-ups dressed in black. It felt so odd to hear them talk about the way she "was". When we went back to her house for the post burial gathering, I felt a knot in my stomach after the meal was done. I sat on the braided rug with the Lincoln Logs and waited quietly. But her songs never played. It was then that I understood. Her fingers would never touch those keys again. Her beautiful mixture of single notes and chords would no longer fill the room. The upright stood silent. It was just another piece of furniture beginning to gather dust.

From that day forward there were no more sing-a-longs. The Blue Jays were without a shoulder; our cat had to settle for a less buxom chest. There was no more patience with Solitaire and peanut butter and jelly replaced the menu of her day. Lawrence Welk did not dare follow us home. Cissy and Bobbie became mere dancing silhouettes. But her piano lived on. I have moved it with me over the years and in our entryway it now sits. Every now and then I pause and rest at the chipped and yellowed keys and I close my eyes. I envision her far away in some magical forest where the animals gather to hear her play. Her song still resonates deep within the well of that old battered upright and as I attempt my own out of tune version of Chopsticks I can see her smiling and rocking along.