It had been a spur of the moment thing. An emotional purchase. Not the smartest thing a guy could do but Gary didn’t care. The little ad on the community billboard was plain enough.
For Sale – Piano. Good shape. Missing one Key. Everett Piano Company, Michigan. Was $435 New. Best Offer.
Gary called the number listed with the advertisement. A lady answered. Said her name was Marge. Her voice sounded familiar. Gary introduced himself and the lady said, “Gary? Gary Thomas?”
“Yes,” said Gary, “is this Marge Turner from the Bakery?” It was. An appointment was made for Saturday for Gary to visit Marge at the Turner home and peek at the old upright.
Saturday morning Gary felt the fool. He knew nothing of pianos. He knew nothing of music. What he did know was that he a had a daughter, Melissa, just turned eleven and now without a mother, and he had no idea how to entertain her. She didn’t play baseball. She didn’t take ballet, not that Gary could have afforded ballet, she didn’t ice skate, and she didn’t have many friends. Melissa did like to read, and she did well in school. And she was never without her transistor radio, a radio consistently tuned in to WKBW AM 1520 out of Buffalo New York. She liked the Beatles, and she liked Simon and Garfunkel, and she seemed to like the odd little folk singer, Bob Dylan.
Would she like to learn to play a piano? Gary had no idea. But he had made the appointment, and it would be considered rude to cancel. He found Melissa in her room doing arithmetic homework. “Just got to nip out for a minute, Mel,” he said.
“OK, daddy,” she said. She went back to her book. When, Gary wondered, would the ‘daddy’ part disappear?
Marge Turner had tea ready, and she and Gary sat for a polite cup and a cookie each. Then Marge got down to business. “Is the piano for you or Melissa?” she asked. Right straight to the point.
Gary reddened. “Melissa. I think she needs a hobby. And maybe some discipline.”
“Have you asked her what she thinks?”
Gary felt the fool once again. “I was going to surprise her.”
Marge Turner smiled. “That’s how I ended up with the silly thing in the first place. Back during the war. Ed had been sent overseas. Europe. Our boy Teddy just moped about the place. Summer was alright but by the time winter rolled around, that would have been back in ’43, the boy was lost. I read an article, probably The Readers Digest, about how good a music education can be. The article made it sound like every kid in America was dreaming of playing piano and that it was all the rage. Well, it wasn’t the rage as far as Teddy was concerned. Teddy was nice enough. He went for his lessons with Mrs. Harris and pretended to practice. Eventually the idea lost its shine.”
Gary didn’t say anything for a second or two. He knew Ed Turner had been lost during the war, but he didn’t know of any detail. Marge had been looking off to her left and then, turning back, said, “The darn thing sat and collected dust for a year or two and then, silly me, I took over the lessons. What fun! Mrs. Harris was quite the disciplinarian too. Do you remember her Gary? Folks called her ‘The Widow Harris’. She’d lost her husband in the Great War. All she had was her piano lessons and a bottle of gin and a fat old cat.” With that Marge arose, walked to the piano and removed the covering sheet. She sat at the bench and tinkled away at the keys, and she sang, ‘There’ll be bluebirds over, the white cliffs of Dover, tomorrow, just you wait and see…’.
“Oh my, the memories,” she said. Then, “I’m afraid the old girl needs a tuning.”
By the time Gary left the Turner house he had plopped down $25 and had agreed to pay Marge one dollar a week for the next fifty weeks. “I was hoping for a hundred,” she had said, “but there doesn’t appear to be much of a line up.”
Over the next couple of weeks Gary arranged for a couple of his buddies from the plant to help move the piano and for Mr. Watkins at the church to give the piano a minor tune-up. “You’ll need a professional tuner one day, but this should see you through for a spell,” said Mr. Watkins. When asked about lessons he had laughed and said, “I haven’t the patience, I’m afraid.”
Melissa was less than thrilled at the arrival of more furniture. “I suppose you want me to learn how to play?” There was a pout on her lips.
“Up to you,” said Gary, “I’ll be taking a few lessons and practicing some every day but you’re more than welcome to try if you want.”
“No thanks,” said Melissa. She went to her room and that was that.
With no Mrs. Harris left in town Gary Thomas found himself in an embarrassing pickle. He had a piano and no one to teach him how to play. He put a wee ad on the community billboard, the one outside the Post Office, the same billboard that had seduced him into buying the piano.
Piano Lessons Needed. Beginner. Call Gary.
A week later, it was a Tuesday, Gary walked into his home at half past eleven. He had been on the afternoon shift at the plant. He found a note Melissa had left on the kitchen table. ‘Some guy called. His name is Robert. Call him. He talks fancy. And we’re out of peanut butter’. Melissa had artistic printing. She could be a calligrapher, Gary thought. I wonder if there’s any money in that?
Gary got hold of the Robert and his fancy accent on the third try. He explained his situation and Robert agreed to stop by after church on Sunday.
Right on time, to the minute, Robert arrived. He was a tall man, quite dapper, very proper and yes, very British. He even had the little moustache like David Niven. Pleasantries over and tea consumed Robert made his way to the old Everett Upright. The man stretched out his hands and ran his fingers up and down the keys. “Don’t worry about that missing one,” he said to Gary, “you’ll never use it.”
After a one-minute warmup the piano exploded in sound. Gary could barely keep track of the man’s fingers. Up and down and down and up the board they flew. Gary had no idea what the heck the man was playing but he found it wonderful. Melissa popped her head in. As quickly as the music had begun it was over. The tall Brit stood, extended his hand to Melissa and said, “Good day, ma’am.”
He then turned to Gary. “This might be a nice piano someday. Decent sound, good man. She’s in desperate need of a tune but we’ll worry about that later. Here is what I propose.” Robert went on to say that he may or may not take the time to instruct Gary. That, he said, would be up to Gary. “I’m going to show you two scales today. I shall show you the keys and the order you will play them, and which fingers you will be using to do so. I shall write it all down, assuming you have some foolscap or a notepad. You are to practice for forty-five minutes to one hour every day, no excuses. I will arrive here, same time, next Sunday and ask you to play the scales. If I believe you have done what I ask I will agree to help. I will be asking for five dollars per one hour lesson.”
The men shook hands. “Rather full of himself,” said Melissa. Gary had nothing to add.
******
Gary was more than happy to do his one hour a day. He felt proud when, by the end of the week, he could play all the notes on the two scales in something resembling the correct order and spacing.
As promised Robert arrived right on time. Again. After a polite cup of tea and a biscuit, he asked Gary to show him what he had learned. It was hard to fathom why Gary was so nervous, but he was. It took a few tries, but he finally managed to complete the test.
“Jolly good,” said Robert. Then, “Allow me to show you two chords, the C and the G.”
Gary followed along and by the time Robert left, five dollars tucked in his pant pocket, Gary had a basic idea of where his fingers should be. His instruction for the week was to spend half of his practice time on scales, now numbering three, and half his time on playing the chords and switching between them.
This went on for a few months. One Sunday Robert asked Gary, “What kind of music would you like to play? Classical? Pop? Folk?”
Gary was stumped. “Well, my daughter likes that young Dylan fellow, the folk singer.”
“Excellent,” said Gary. The man then played a tune Gary recognized as ‘The Times They are a Changin’. “Now don’t think you’ll be playing this in two weeks,” said Robert, “but I’ll show you how to plunk it out one note at a time and then we’ll graduate to full chords. Maybe add a few fancy bits. Sound good?”
Yes, Gary thought that sounded just fine.
The next couple of months flew by. The calendar flipped pages. Near the end of November Gary asked Robert a tough question. “Would you be upset if I took a month off? I’ll keep my practicing up, but I need to watch the pennies and nickels as we close in on the Holiday.”
“Good show,” said Robert. “We can start back up in January. But no slacking off.”
Gary did not slack off. On Boxing Day, the day after Christmas, Robert appeared at the door. “I come bearing gifts,” he said. With him was an attractive woman, maybe forty years old. “This is Olive, Gary. Olive, Gary.” The two shook hands. ‘Olive is the better half, the trouble and strife.”
Olive slapped Robert. “Never mind this sod,” she said. Her accent was quite posh. Upper crust. Olive sat herself down at the old Everett, played a few notes the said, more to Robert than to Gary, “Not too bad. An hour, maybe two. Tops.”
“Excellent,” said Robert. Then, looking at Gary, “When is a good time for my Olive here to drop in and tune the old girl?”
“I…I…”
“No charge old man. A gift from us to you and yours.”
It was all arranged and by January the first the old Everett sounded the treat.
******
On a pleasant spring day in March Gary was sent home from the factory early. Parts had been late arriving and there was nothing for the men to do. He rushed home hoping to take advantage of the sunshine, maybe get some yard work done, perhaps a walk down by the river.
Up the front steps he walked. He heard singing. Nice singing. Pretty singing. He opened the door to find his daughter Melissa plinking away at the piano. She was playing ‘Puff the Magic Dragon’ and singing as an Angel might. Gary stood silently, not sure if he should go back out and return later, or, and this sacred him a bit, stick around and gush about her talent. His daughter had just turned twelve and was getting harder and harder to fathom.
‘Painted wings and Giants rings make way for other toys…’ The piano stopped. Melissa, like all females, had a sixth sense and that sixth sense had told her she was not alone. “Oh, daddy,” she said, “you’re home.”
“You sound brilliant,” Gary said.
Melissa had turned a bit red. “Think so?”
“I had no idea you could sing.”
“Well, I’ve been noodling about on your piano and…well, I just start singing. I can’t help it.”
“The piano is for both of us. It was meant for you but…”
“I was being silly. I love this piano.”
Robert the piano teacher had no issue with both Gary and Melissa sitting in on his lessons. And then one day he heard Melissa as she sung quietly along with a new piece he was showing them. He stopped playing and said to her, “Don’t be shy. Sing.” It took a few moments but finally she belted out the song. It was the old Pete Seeger tune, Turn, Turn, Turn that the Byrds had recently covered to great success.
Robert looked at Gary and then back at Melissa. “I don’t say this lightly, but you might be one of the most talented young ladies I have ever heard.”
Melissa blushed and Gary beamed. It was arranged that Olive would drop in next week for a listen, which she did. And that was that. Olive knew a woman from the city, and she brought her down to hear for herself. The woman, Lizzie Bertrand, had been a semi-star on the stages of London and New York, had tired of the nightlife and had settled down with a well-to-do patron in a mini mansion on the Bridle Path.
Lizzie agreed to coach. Olive suggested Melissa learn a few chords on the guitar. “Easier to lug around,” she said.
******
It didn’t take long before Melissa was playing and singing at church benefits, Christmas shows, weddings and busking at cafes. A month after she turned fifteen, she signed with an agent out of Toronto. She was no longer the most unpopular girl at her school but rarely attended. Her schedule was demanding.
Her first recording, at sixteen, was a silly popped-up folkie type song, a poorly penned rip-of of the early Dylan sound with bubble-gum lyrics. But the 45 sold well and radio stations across Canada hyped it up. Her picture in the newspaper didn’t hurt. She had the look. Longish dirty blonde hair, blue eyes and a permanent pout. And, unlike most singers, she could handle her own in the interview room.
The next single did just as well, and a long-play album followed. Included on the album was a ballad that Melissa had written. It was called ‘My Old Piano’. The record company and the agents and the producers had hoped to leave the song off but, to keep Melissa happy, had stuck it in the middle of side two between a cover of Girl from the North Country and a calypso disaster called Banana Mon.
Something about that piano song rang true, however. The line ‘he’s just an old piano, but he’s all I’ll ever need’, he’s like a line from Walden, I can’t help but read and read’ was repeated and repeated hypnotically before the bridge and more again at the fade out. A flurry of B-flat minors added gravitas.
Two months after the album was released the record company, not being fools, pressed My Old Piano as a 45. It took off. Number one in Canada, number six in America and, to the great surprise of all, number four in Britain and number nine in Germany. Melissa concerts sold out. Royalties fell from the sky.
Melissa saw less and less of her father Gary and his friends Robert and Olive. When she did come back to town she was hounded by the very same kids that had once snubbed her. The press would not leave her alone. Her schedule left her moody one day and on top of the world the next. A record company doctor travelled with her and supplied a hodgepodge of medication, some legal, some borderline and some imported from Columbia or Afghanistan or the laboratories of California. Her weight dropped, her voice faltered, and her fans moved on. She was Page Six fodder for a few months and then forgotten. A much-publicised rehab stint in Sweden didn’t hold. Promiscuity resulted in an abortion that hung on her conscience like a veil. The name Melissa Thomas became a ‘where are they now’ punchline for morning DJ’s and late-night TV hosts.
Melissa drifted from agent to agent and record company to record company. The odd time she did come home to visit she spent her days in bed and her nights drinking too much. Gary was beside himself. Robert and Olive did all they could but nothing they could say hit home. Visits from the local Pastor were politely endured but the mans words fell flat.
******
Gary made the decision, one that did not come lightly, to rid the house of the old Everett. The sight of the piano made him sad. It felt like a curse. It felt like every time he looked at it, he died a bit inside. An ad was placed on the community bulletin board and in a daily from up in the city. He received one call.
On a Sunday after church a young man showed. He seemed a bright sort, a bit dishevelled perhaps, but that was the style of the day. He had an odd accent, from somewhere south, a Dixie accent. “Mind a trip up and down the keys?” he said.
Gary didn’t mind.
The man played slowly and perfectly. His long fingers made love to the keys. A flourish or two here and there added warmth to the Thomas home. Gary had forgotten how beautiful the old Everett could sound. When the stranger set off on a stunning version of ‘Puff the Magic Dragon’ Gary began to cry and then lost all control. The man, he said his name was Jimmy V., stopped. “Are you alright?” he said.
Gary had no idea why, but he bared his soul to the young boy. For fifteen minutes he told his sad tale. Not once was he interrupted.
When Gary was done, he hung his head. Jimmy V. placed a healing hand on Gary’s left shoulder and said, “My little brother died two months ago. Vietnam. He was eighteen years old. He was a gentle boy. His name was John, and we all called him Johnny Angel, ‘cause of that old Shelley Fabares number. Me and Johnny was just little kids when that song come out. We’d sing it with our mama. God, how mama loved to sing. All we had was one old six-string we could barely keep in tune, but we could fill that old shack with music day and night. You mind I play his favourite song?” Gary, unable to speak, nodded his head.
The stranger from Dixie tinkled with the keys for a moment and then, with a voice sent from on high, a voice nurtured on southern love and summer molasses, began, ‘I was standing by my window, on a cold and cloudy day…” By the time the young man got to the part that cries, ‘Undertaker, undertaker, undertaker, won’t you please drive slow…’ another voice had joined in. Her voice cracked a time or two, but she sounded like an angel to Gary. ‘For that lady you are haulin’, Lord I hate to see her go.’
For the next hour or so the Thomas home was filled to the brim with gospel harmonies and Nashville pickin’. Songs of joy and heartache and songs of love and redemption, songs of honky-tonk heroes and born-again sinners.
After Johnny V. took his leave and Melissa went up the stairs to finish her nap, Gary laid back on the couch and smiled himself to sleep.
That night, at dinnertime, Melissa turned to her father and said, ‘I had the oddest of dreams this afternoon, daddy.” Then she cleaned her plate and asked for seconds.