Private lives

The excitement was building. The piano was about to be theirs. And to boot, it was free. Or was it?

By JOAN M. NELSON

© St. Petersburg Times, published April 30, 2000

[Times art: Rossie Newson]

"There's a free piano listed in the want ads, and the owners live just around the corner!" my mother told my dad. Her eyes were bright with excitement.

"Joan needs a piano. You yourself said that it's amazing that she's teaching herself to play. It's really nice of Mrs. Miller to encourage her to use their piano any time she comes to babysit. But it's time for us to encourage her by getting our own piano. She can use it now, and it will be there for the other five kids if they're interested."

"Nothing is ever free, especially something like a piano," may dad responded.

Mom went on to assure him that the neighbors had verified the fact. Dad reluctantly agreed that she could go take a look at the piano. If it was truly free, she could get it.

Sure enough, the next day Mom put on her well-worn tan coat and said she was going to see about the piano. When she reached for her Sunday hat with the feather on the side, we knew she was serious.

When she came home, she rushed into the house and headed straight for the kitchen. She set a new speed record making dinner. At the dinner table, she talked so fast we could barely understand her. She told us that the piano was old but in good shape, and best of all it was a Steinway upright. It was too big for most people's homes but just right for the spot against the far wall in our entry hall. The owners were moving. They told Mom there was no room for a piano at their new home. Dad still thought this situation was too good to be true, but he agreed that Mom could get the piano as long as there was no charge. He resumed eating his dinner just as if it was any other night. The rest of us sat speechless, forks in mid-air.

The next day, Mom called a local company and made arrangements for the piano to be moved to our house. All week, I had trouble concentrating on my homework. I could think of nothing but the impending arrival of the piano. Mom fell behind in her housework because she spent so much time telling the neighbors the good news.

On piano moving day I, who usually liked to linger a bit after school, left immediately and sped home.

As I neared the house, I saw a huge moving truck parked at the curb. Our house, along with the others on the block, was built on a hill, causing the house itself to be about seven feet higher than the front sidewalk. Two short flights of concrete steps, separated by a landing, led up our front hillside. A shorter set of porch steps completed the path to our front door.

Wide planks had been placed vertically up each flight of stair steps. Sweating, groaning and swearing, three men pushed, pulled and heaved a large quilt-covered object trussed with pulleys and ropes. Little by little, they inched up the two flights of steps. Mom was out in the front yard overseeing the project. A small crowd from the neighborhood gathered on the front sidewalk. Kids coming from the junior high a block away joined the group. People waiting for the bus on our corner gawked. It resembled opening day at the county fair.

Finally, the piano was safely in place in the front hall. The man in charge wiped sweat from his forehead with his sleeve and reached for his clipboard and papers. He began writing. Then he gave the clipboard to my mother.

"The bill," he informed her. Mom's face blanched as she saw the total. The moving man reluctantly agreed to accept a check by mail from my dad, since Mom didn't have enough money on hand to pay him on the spot.

"Holy-Jumped-Up-Judas-John-Rogers," my dad shouted when he saw the bill, using his own personal swear words as he leaped out of his easy chair and began pacing around the room. He eventually simmered down and paid the bill. That's how we got our free Steinway upright piano, and that's how I learned that there's no such thing as a free lunch in this life.

-- Joan M. Nelson lives in Temple Terrace. Private Lives is edited by Mary Jane Park.

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