The Old Upright Piano, Joy Neal Kidney

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To learn more, visit Bose.com. This is Lee Habib, and this is Our American Stories, and we tell stories about everything here on this show, including your stories. Send them to OurAmericanStories.com. They're some of our favorites. And up next, another story from one of our regular contributors and listener, Joy Neal Kidney. Joy is the author of Liara's Letters, the story of love and loss for an Iowa family during World War II, and today she shares the story of her old upright piano passed down to her from her mother. And Joy listens to our great station in Des Moines, WHO.

Take it away, Joy. It's been in the family for six decades. Most of our history with this musical instrument is good, except for one really bad one. Uncle Delbert found the dusty piano about 1952 in someone's shed near Perry, Iowa, while he was doing some wiring for them. He knew that mom was looking for a piano so my sister and I could take lessons. How much do they want for it?

$45. He hauled it to our farmhouse in his electrician's van. He and dad lugged it into a corner of the front room, which had a linoleum floor, a plush plum colored Davenport and chair, a blonde black and white television with a TV lamp on it.

And in the winter, a tall brown heating stove. When she was a girl, Mom envied the kids who took piano lessons. She'd attend their recitals in Dexter and a couple of those girls eventually became her sisters-in-law. Dad enjoyed hearing his sisters practice for lessons.

One of those sisters played for their wedding. Even Grandma Leora, Mom's mother, took lessons as a girl, riding a horse over dusty country roads into town for her Saturday lessons. So piano lessons were our fate. Sis Gloria and I took lessons from Eleanor Chapler in Dexter, at first getting out of school once a week to walk to her house for lessons. Mrs. Chapler had a baby grand piano, a dog that licked our legs, and a parakeet that much of the time had the run of the house and plucked the feathers out of its tummy. But Mom made sure Dad got to hear us practice pieces from our red John Thompson books. And even though piano recitals always accompanied planning season, my dad never missed one. When Gloria was nine years old, her recital piece was Chinese lullaby. Mrs. Chapler, who dressed up and wore red lipstick for recitals with a hat on her plain bobbed hair, announced that Gloria's piece had six flats.

Gloria turned the pages, but she never glanced at the music. She knew it all by heart. Gloria and I began to practice hymns for Sunday school, all the while on the old upright. We played duets, everything from deep purple to a patriotic one that rocked the pumpkins decorating the top of the piano at a 4-H achievement night. One by one, the old ivories gave up their glue.

Mom found someone who would install plastic ivories and even blacken the sharps and flats. When we got older, we began to complain about having to practice. Mom started saving the day's dishes to bargain with, either practice the piano or do the dishes.

We practiced. Mom happily did dishes while being serenaded by live music, often parking on the end of the piano bench, dish towel in hand, singing along. That was until my boogie woogie stage. Not the kind of music Mom had envisioned.

About junior high age, I began to pound out WC Handy pieces, Jogo Blues, Basin Street Blues, Beat Me Daddies, 8 to the Bar, over and over. An hour of Handy is a workout, physically and emotionally, and for Mom, spiritually. She later admitted that my heavy handed blues and boogie days drove her into the garden. But Mrs. Chapler put up with it gracefully.

Of course, she only had to stand it for half an hour a week. She let me choose my recital pieces from Frankie and Johnny my freshman year and shortening bread the next before I finally graduated to Chopin and Rachmaninoff. Years later, after marriage, after my husband's years in the Air Force in Vietnam, we bought our first house. My folks gave us the wonderful old piano. But what a chore to get it from the Iowa farmhouse to a Denver suburb.

Here comes the bad episode. Five years and one son later, we moved back to Iowa. The heavy old gal had lost his two back wheels in the move, so it tilted back. My husband leaned his shoulder and head against the wall to pry the piano from it so I could slip shims under to replace the wheels.

He ruptured a disc in his neck, leading to surgery to fuse a couple of vertebrae. But he recovered and decided that he still liked the piano well enough to take it apart, strip off the dark, grainy texture and refinish it. It wasn't long before Son Dan was taking lessons and practicing on that same ponderous piano.

She has an uncertain future. The last time the piano was tuned, we learned that she has a cracked sounding board, which cannot be mended. So the instrument holds a silent corner in our main room, usually crowned with family pictures.

Those boogie woogie days, just a remembrance. And a great story by Joy Neal Kidney, and great job on that as always to Monty Montgomery, who did the production on the piece. Joy Neal Kidney's story of an old upright piano here on Our American Stories. Folks, if you love the great American stories we tell and love America like we do, we're asking you to become a part of the Our American Stories family. If you agree that America is a good and great country, please make a donation. A monthly gift of $17.76 is fast becoming a favorite option for supporters. Go to OurAmericanStories.com now and go to the donate button and help us keep the great American stories coming.

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