By Janice Lindsay
Contributing Writer
I might owe my existence to a piano.
In 1920, a young couple in a Rhode Island village, expecting their second child, bought an upright piano. People still made their own music then, even as the radio and records were coming into wide use. It was the golden age of the piano. Every family who could afford a piano had one and somebody who could play it.
That second child, who would become my mother, loved the piano. As other children came along, the family couldn’t afford piano lessons, so she taught herself to play.
Fast forward to the Great Depression, in the early 1930s. The couple now had six children. My grandfather, like many men, was jobless. He had been managing the family grocery store. When customers couldn’t afford to pay, he gave them groceries anyway. This was not, as we might say now, a sustainable business model.
Creditors could take their possessions. My grandmother would not let them take her beloved piano. Family members moved the piano to her sister’s house, where there were only two children and a husband with a reliable job.
The Depression eventually ended for this family when my grandfather was appointed postmaster of the village, a steady job at last. The piano came home.
My mother continued playing. One day, she answered an ad from a little dance orchestra. The orchestra leader was a pianist, but playing all evening for dances was a physical challenge, and he wanted a pianist to help him. She was hired. Before long, she married the orchestra leader. Together they made not only beautiful music, but me.
Without my grandmother’s piano, who would I be? Would I be at all?
In our house, we had my father’s piano. My parents needed to know how to play all the popular songs. My younger sister and I grew up surrounded by popular music. Even now, we can sing dozens of songs that we don’t remember learning. We absorbed them.
One of my earliest memories is me as a performer. I was four. Local entertainment included talent shows in the village hall, where my father played for the singers. While he played at the corner of the stage, I stood center stage, before what seemed like a huge audience, in the darkened hall, and sang, “I’m Looking Over a Four-Leaf Clover.”
I learned very early that there’s a big difference between listening to music and making music. When you’re listening, you’re on the outside of the music looking into it. When you make music, you’re inside the music looking out.
I made music throughout my youth in choral groups and piano-playing. But then I got busy with marriage, motherhood, and a career. There was little time for making music.
That busy life eventually quieted down. Ten years ago this month, I signed up for a beginners’ ukulele class offered by adult ed. I was nervous. Could I do this? I managed. The ukulele is not hard to learn. And you don’t have to be an advanced player to enjoy making fairly good music.
Two years after that class, our library started a ukulele group and I joined. We’re still here, practicing and performing and having a fine time. Making music with friends – living inside the music together and looking out – it’s so satisfying and such fun. I highly recommend it.
By the way – in case you’re wondering – my grandmother’s piano lives with one of my brothers. My father’s piano lives with a nephew.
And I’m left to ponder: Who would I be if my grandparents had bought a ukulele instead of a piano?
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