The Quiet Octave

She said to me one Friday evening, "Oh you know what I did today? I bought a piano!! Now, not having more than two nickels to rub together, I exclaimed in a somewhat heated manner, "You did what?! "Don't worry", said she, "It only cost $5.00!" Somewhat mollified, I found the piano was old and belonged to Eddy, a friend. So I contacted 5 other guys, promised them beer and then rented a trailer. They arrived the next morning and we started out for Eddy's home.In that Eddy had a cement slab just the right height for the trailer, it was no problem running the piano right onto the trailer and as we drove away, I noticed two heavily indented tire tracks in Eddy's lawn. On arrival at my home I drove the trailer up on my cemented driveway avoiding any indentation in my lawn and we unloaded the piano onto my "stoop" (Is that term still used?) and got it most of the way into my foyer/living room. That's when the trouble began. You knew there would be trouble didn't you? A staircase coming from upstairs was in the way and I removed a wrought iron railing so that we were able to lift the piano over the base of the stairs and get it into the living room. Our objective was to get it in the room with the wall we were backed up to but I found out pianos don't BEND and we couldn't get it around the two corners required to put the beast (By now I am getting unfriendly) into was what a spare bedroom. I should explain we had a spare room only because I had worked my tail off building two rooms and a bath up stairs in our "expandable " home. So there we stood, 5 guys having a beer, while I fumed a bit . You understand this was our first home and our living room was quite small. There that blasted monster stood, heaving and smoking with all our furniture and rugs and lamps pushed to one side of the room so that we could get the piano to its destination. At this point my frustration hit a new high and in somewhat of an unpleasant voice I said to my dear wife "I am leaving for New York in one hour. You had better call someone and have that #@%o:that#%$@&*&^% taken out of here before I get home Friday night!!!!" I arrived home Friday and was greeted by that thing in the same place it was when I left. I fumed and fussed and she said she couldn't get anyone that wanted it. At which point I stated in a voice that all five of the guys that helped must have been able to hear. I might add they lived in different parts of the city. "Well then" said I, its going to rot there," and I sat in the only chair available to read my trade paper. The next night my brother, Jack, came over and asked what the piano was doing there and I replied in a sarcastic tone, "Its rotting". I explained the circumstances and he said "We can't leave it there" to which I testily said, "I can"! He went out to his car, brought in his tool box and proceeded to begin to take it apart. What a nice guy my brother turned into. I joined in and when it was down to a harp we rolled it back into the spare room. It took us until mid-night to get it back together with no pieces left over and I sat down to play it and, you probably saw this coming, not a sound emitted from the piano. At this point, with a larger dose of frustration than I have ever known, my normally, nicely modulated voice rose into a stentorian bellow and I shouted "Louise, didn't you try this piano before you bought it??" I think she had left the house rather then reply. At this point, I looked at Jack and the humor of the past week began to infect me and soon he and I are laughing . Yes, we are laughing at the piano that didn't give up a sound and for the two years it sat there, it never did.

Me 'n Mickey

In the days of my youth, which at this point seems like eons ago (It was only many decades) my older brother, Jack, had a temper of huge proportions. At the slightest opportunity when Mom wasn't looking he would pounce on me and begin flailing at me with flashing fists. Of course I was innocent of any untoward methods of provoking him. (Sure I was) At any rate, it was normal for me to burst into gales of tears and sobs even though sometimes he hadn't touched me. I knew he would attack at the slightest provocation so I usually started early to minimize my pain. It didn't do any good, he beat up on me regardless. This was a part of my growing up although, questionably it may account for the fact I never grew beyond 5'7 inches. My grandmother always called him Mickey for some unknown reason. We also had a dog named Mickey but I was an adult before I drew an anology between the two. Jack had joined the CCC, a conservation organization created by Franklin Roosevelt to help alleviate the depression through which our country was immersed. He was gone before I went into my end of the service and I assumed I might not see him again. However, it appeared he had a broken ear drum (No it was not part of my retribution) and came home about the time I went into the Navy. When the family was reunited three years later and we were all together again, it was amazing what a nice guy he turned out to be. He and his wife Betty would come over to our home and have dinner with us and he would help me with different projects and we would work side by side. One time he spent an entire day while we wheelbarrowed load after load of top soil from an empty lot behind our home. I remember one night he found a harp from an up right piano in the middle of our living room and asked what it was doing there. I replied "Its rotting" but that's a different story which shall be told ere long. After Betty died, he was a more frequent visitor and I grew to have a great appreciation for my brother. He died in a car crash a few years later and I never had a chance to remind him of the other Mickey I had known who was our dog. Jack was one of the good guys and I still miss my brother , even after all these 40 years or more.