Happy birthday, dear piano

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My grand piano turned 100 this year. 

Like my books and my writing, my piano is not something I would want to live without for long. I sit down to play several times a week. Life is just better after I’ve set my fingers to those keys.

The day it was delivered to our house I cried. I told The Cowboy that I had always thought I’d be an old, old white-haired lady before I’d ever be blessed with a grand piano. I sat down to play, and I cried some more. It was one of the most wonderful days of my life. 

From that day on, it has made beautiful and not so beautiful music under the hands of piano students, children, grandchildren, and many others.

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When you play, never mind who listens to you.
— Robert Schumann —

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I love it when it’s time for a piano tuning, especially when the tuner takes time afterwards to play. Such wonderful music comes from the fingers of those gifted people.

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We were able to purchase the piano because of an unexpected gift from The Cowboy’s Great Uncle Nick, who lived in Whitehorse, Yukon. The Cowboy met him once, when he was about 10 years old. I only ever heard stories of this eccentric character.

We bought the piano from an elderly woman who had to move out of her home. She had inherited the piano from her parents, but had never learned to play it. Her father had been the first American player for the Saskatchewan Roughriders in the 1930’s or 40’s.

As I understand it, the piano had been acquired by her parents as a piece of furniture. Shockingly, making music was not its main required function. The woman of the house wanted it to match her French Provincial furniture, so she had the wood painted creamy white with gold trim.

When the piano came to me it was badly yellowed and smelled of cigarette smoke that took several years to waft away. But it had a great story, looked so unique, and it was all mine.

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Life is like a piano.
What you get out of it depends on how you play it.
— Tom Lehrer —

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I had no idea how old it was until last Fall when I had it tuned by a new piano tuner who became interested in its age. I was blown away when he called a few days later to say the piano was built in 1919.

In 1919, the pop-up toaster, short wave radio, and arc welder were invented. The Treaty of Versailles was signed on June 28 that year, bringing The Great War to its official end, and Queen Elizabeth, the Queen Mother, had her nineteenth birthday on August 4.

Theodore Roosevelt, Andrew Carnegie, Pierre-Auguste Renoir, Wilfred Laurier, Sam Steele, and L. Frank Baum all died that year.

Jackie Robinson, Nat King Cole, Eva Peron, Sir Edmund Hillary, Liberace, and Pierre Trudeau were born in 1919. 

These famous people, the first American Saskatchewan Roughrider, the elderly daughter who sold a piano she couldn’t play, and Great Uncle Nick, have passed on. But my piano is still here, linking me to bygone eras. The unknown hands that crafted this beautiful instrument have long since passed on too, but their handiwork remains, a legacy to an unknown craftsman.

A gift to me every single day.

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The piano keys are black and white, but they sound like
a million colours in your mind.
— Maria Cristina Mena —

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Training wheels and blossoms

My neighbours are out for their walk again. Every day, since they moved in 5 years ago, I’ve watched Dad or Mom or Grandma take the baby and the dog for a walk. First it was a stroller with one of those sturdy hooded baby seats fastened on, then it was front facing, then the walk slowed down to a halting creep as the adult hovered over a toddler who wanted to walk by herself. The other day I saw the five-year-old on a wobbly pink bike with training wheels. 

Nothing like watching a little one grow up to remind you that time is marching forward.

What never changes on these walks, however, is the stately black dog and … the cat. It’s remarkable! And it’s also quite obvious that, while the child and the dog are being taken for a walk, the mottled cat has decided to go along. It doesn’t walk with its family; it trots along behind, making side dashes here and there to check out a smell or a movement in the grass. It can, of course, because unlike the dog or even the child, it is not leashed. Not tethered in any way to anyone else in the family except, maybe, by love?

I’m tempted to think it’s just curiosity.

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Our own Sweet Thing tries out her training wheels.

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The snowy apple blossoms have bloomed and faded for another year, but oh how they flourished! Even on the day our city was cloaked in smoke from the forest fires up north, the blossoms shimmered with a magical glow.

Now the lilacs are in full bloom. I love to bring a few inside for a couple of days. They fill the whole house with their joyful scent of Spring. I do so at risk, though, since The Cowboy can’t stand the smell of them. Sure enough, as soon as he walked through the door today he looked at me, alarmed. “What stinks?”

At the moment, these beauties will welcome you at our front door.

Interesting how our noses interpret things so differently from one another. What smells heavenly to one person turns another off completely. To me, there is nothing remotely sweet to the smell of sweet peas, delicately pretty though they be.

Image by _Alicja_ from Pixabay 

Maybe that’s why God made such a variety of blossoms, so that each of us would have at least one fragrant beauty to get the joy bubbles bobbing in our soul.

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The coolest thing I saw this week was this live stream of earth from the International Space Station. You can listen to pretty music as you circle the earth from space, in live time. Very cool. Thanks to Steven Skoczen of inkandfeet.com for passing on that info.

Fine tuning

Our neighbourhood is full of noise and big trucks, orange caution fences and signs that say ROAD CLOSED. Main gas lines are being replaced – a very big job. There is a large hole in our back yard next to the house, where the gas workers have prepped for the change. It is covered with a piece of plywood and encircled with barriers and orange plastic fencing. 

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Right now there is a massive truck in the middle of the cul-de-sac that has unfolded a long long green arm over the houses and into someone’s back yard, channeling concrete from a big concrete mixer truck, also in the middle of the cul-de-sac, its drum rotating. Gears grind. Motors grumble and roar. Back up alarms beep incessantly. And a “concrete specialist” stands guard on the truck, pushing buttons on a handheld wand.

It will be an obstacle course for anyone wanting to leave their driveway today.

My imagination conjures up four little grandsons sitting on the thickly padded iron bench I keep in the bay window, watching, pointing, grunting. BIG is a favourite word in Bright’s and Sunny’s limited vocabulary. They love to say it, over and over.

All that noise. And yet …

If I tune my ears to the back garden I can still make out the birds warbling to their heart’s content. No roads closed in their winged world. Man-made noise and God-made noise, blending into a modern day symphony.  This is life in my little corner today.

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Image by PublicDomainImages from Pixabay 

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The best thing I read all week was an excerpt from Margaret Atwood’s poem, UP:

Now here’s a good one:

you’re lying on your deathbed.

You have one hour to live.

Who is it, exactly, you have needed

all these years to forgive?

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Boys

I know girls. I raised three of them into strong independent women. As they grew up I was involved with their friends, through school, birthday parties, dance, drama, basketball, soccer, hockey. You name it, I was there. Watching girls be girls. 

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I am pleasantly baffled by boys. Perhaps I shouldn’t be, having grown up with three brothers. But when you’re a child you take everything in stride. It’s not the same as being an adult, observing and caring for them. 

The Cowboy and I just spent 10 days looking after Little Man, Bright, and Sunny. Three very busy little boys. Every day spent with them was a new wonder. Intriguing. Bewildering. Enchanting. Exhausting.

I don’t know, are all boys enthralled with potty humour? Even the two-year-olds erupt in laughter as their five-year-old brother shifts his hips to the left and lets out a howling “toot”. 

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Of all the animals, the boy is the most unmanageable.

Plato

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The novel I am writing is told from the perspective of a five-year-old girl. As I write from her viewpoint I need to be aware of how much language she carries. So, one of my goals this visit was to closely observe Little Man’s language and the way he processes life.

Surprise, surprise! What I discovered was that Little Man speaks like a five-year-old boy. His language includes a lot of grunts and sound effects and other noises that make him giggle with glee.

I don’t remember this being true of little girls. They giggle about other things.

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A boy is a magical creature. You can lock him out of your workshop, but you can’t lock him out of your heart.

Allan Beck

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So this new phenomenon is an education, and I’m enjoying every minute of it.

Grandparenting little boys is like experiencing the sun and the wind, the rain and the sasquatch all coming out on the same day. It is a dazzling torrential delight.

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The best thing I saw all week (besides the faces of my grandchildren) was … These Canada Geese walking across an almost thawed ditch. The ice creaked and squelched and squerumped beneath them as they gingerly took step after cautious step.

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