Baroque No More

I have to say I truly miss having Internet access at home. This hasn't happened yet due to a number of factors, prime among them is that I have been too lazy to research the various offers of Internet alone, cable TV plus Internet, land-line telephone plus Internet, land-line telephone plus Internet PLUS cable TV, ad inifitum, ad nauseum. The adage about not missing your water until the well runs dry is true. It just makes my head hurt to think about sorting through all of that information and making a decision.

So, my decision for now is not to think about it a little bit longer, and to continue to blog from wherever whenever I can.

Monday, whilst home in the morning due to a flaming flare up (imagine actual flames settling in the joints of your wrists, back, elbows, ankles and hips), I received a call from the local piano dealer telling me a tech was finally available to come and look at the damage to my beloved Acrosonic inflicted by the movers. Was I interested? You betcha.

An hour or so later, the noble Wes pulled his trusty Volvo into my driveway. Hauling out his bag of tools and putting on nice, fussy little shoe covers, he quickly dismantled the upper portion of my spinet and soon located the problem. It seems three octaves of keys had become dislocated from the capstans, causing them to be jammed in the keyboard. And yes, oh Mr. Snotty Adjustor from the Moving Company, this was directly attributable to the fact that the piano was turned ON ITS END to be moved. And just for the record, it's a very good thing your guys DIDN'T actually drop it during the move.

It took him about fifteen minutes to do the actual work. We also chatted a bit about rabbits (they were watching him avidly), music in general and the irony of being charged an extra fee for special handling of the piano, only to have it damaged in the actual handling.

Anyway, a half hour later my nice little piano was feeling much better

and I was definitely happier. I wrote him a modest check, took his card and promised to schedule a tuning sometime in the near future and did a wincing, hobbling happy dance in honor of my restored instrument. I played a few bars of a Handel sonata, despite the fire in my hands. It was so good to be able to play again, if only briefly.

Wes was also able to reference the serial number on my piano and determine when it was built. I knew it was used, but figured on it being about 30 years old. It turns out I have a war baby! My dear Acrosonic was built in 1942, which lends the imagination toward all kinds of nice stories. I wonder what hands played her, and what tunes she sang? Did she welcome home a loved one from overseas? A sweetheart sailor perhaps? Or was her cover solemly closed and draped in black, to acknowledge that some beloved someone wouldn't be coming home after all?

I love old furniture and old instruments. I loved my piano before knowing her vintage, but having a specific date and era gives me a new love and respect for her. What a rich and exciting time to be brought into the world.

At the end of the day, my piano was once again whole and hale. My hands felt better and I was even able to play a little. By bedtime, all was right with the world, and she held the lovely flowers sent by a friend. We're home at last.