The Death of a Piano

A piano had always been in my home or at my disposal at school or summer job.  With my marriage in June 1969, I no longer had an available piano.  We selected a piano on a lease-to-purchase plan, and learned very quickly, that was not the piano to buy.  After researching what would be the perfect piano for me, I settled on a Yamaha model, but did not have enough money.  I told my new husband we could not think of having a family until I had a new Yamaha piano sitting in our home, as, if we had a child first, the piano would never come.  Christmas of 1972, we bought the piano of my dreams.  The tone quality was superb and the touch was awesome.  A baby came in September 1973!

For the next 30 years, it served me and our two children as a vehicle of learning, expression, expansion, creativity, enjoyment, pleasure, relaxation, joy, gratification, and amusement. (Frustration could also be in that list!)  I loved my piano for those 30 years, until it needed new pads.  When my piano was reconstructed, it was not the same.  Its bright, clear sound was replaced with a mediocre tone, plus it no longer had the wonderful touch.  My love affair with my piano waned.   After moving to Texas, my new tuner promised he could restore the tone quality.  He did!  He also stated he could correct the touch with a regulation.  I held off on a regulation to not deplete my financial reserves.

A few months ago, it needed another tuning.  A month later, it was in need of a tuning again.  I was busy and pushed it aside.  When I finally called my tuner, he asked for the serial number.  That told him it is a gray market piano, meaning it was never intended for the North American market.  WHAT?!   This article explains the demise of my Japanese-made piano, according to my piano technician, better than the following gray market article describing a piano not seasoned to live in our North American heated and air conditioned homes.

After inspecting my piano today, he pronounced it “worthless” among a lot of technical jargon illuminating the piano’s woes.  It has lived its life.  My possession of the piano has been 43 years and one month — exactly the age of my marriage when it fell apart.

I thought my marriage would last a lifetime.  I thought my piano would last a lifetime.  I am in mourning. . .