Tinkling Down Memory Lane

D'Hummi stopped humming along at 3:00, and cried to be changed. I removed his bucket and tossed the contents out the basement door. Upon replacement of his fluid-catcher, D'Hummi remained deadly silent. He would not respond to my attempts at resuscitation. It was like he had gone into a coma. His red light remained on. I couldn't turn him off, or adjust his fan speed or humidity level.

I called upstairs to the #1 son. Not an expert in D'Hummies, but in electronic gewgaws. His suggestion was to unplug D'Hummi. Easy for him to say, as he laid his slumbering noggin back on the couch. The electrical outlet is behind the piano. Not that it mattered to that strapping sixteen-year-old that his out-of-shape old-lady mom would have to heave a heavy piano away from the wall to accomplish that task. (SPOILER ALERT: D'Hummi was revived by this minor operation.)

Now don't go thinking we're some hoity toity Hillbillies with a Liberace grand piano in our basement next to the pool table. It's an upright piano. Kind of beat-up. It used to belong to my grandma, who gave it to us before she passed away last fall. Don't you worry none about Grandma. She had another piano, as well as an organ. She wanted us to have this one because #1 plays the piano. I can tinkle out a melody (maybe you shouldn't try to picture that) and a few chords, but #1 is a regular two-handed, music-readin', ivory-tickler. This piano used to belong to my elementary school. Grandma was on the school board, and bought the piano when it was replaced.

When he was four years old, my mom paid for #1 to start piano lessons. He had remarked that he would like to learn how to play. He was four. I did not pay it much mind. #1 enjoyed going to the piano lady's home for 30 minutes each week. He didn't have a piano to practice on, so we bought him a little keyboard. When he visited my mom, he used her piano. Oh, don't think she knows how to play. She just always wanted a piano.

The first recital was held at my mom's Methodist church. The piano lady was a member of the congregation, and played the Methodist organ. So she had a built-in venue for her recitals. Being the youngest student, #1 went first. I had given him a child's music portfolio thingy to carry his sheet music. It came with a little stuffed bear.

When his name was announced, #1 stepped up to the elevated piano. That boy has always had the look of a politician. He wore a vest and tie, which he would also request to wear in his school pictures. #1 set his music portfolio on the piano bench. He removed his music and put it on the piano. The piano lady slid onto the bench to turn pages for him. As #1 set his portfolio down beside the piano, he removed that stuffed bear. He placed it on the piano ledge right above the keys, and turned to smile at the audience. A squeaky-clean, short-haircutted, blue-eyed, 100-watt smile. They oohed and ahhed. I must admit that #1 was just too precious for words at that moment. Then he sat down to play.

And he was good. Not Liberace good, like the next kid, who was a couple years older, with a true flair for piano playing. But good. Technically proficient. He hit all the right notes in all the right rhythm. And when he was done, he packed up his little bear and beamed from ear to ear.

Where does the time go?