Our newest instrument arrived early Wednesday afternoon. Oh, my! (The picture does it so little justice!)
The piano movers had ramps for the front stoop stairs and everything. Nice guys, too. Cleared the door of the upstairs guest/recording room with a hair's girth to spare. No problems. It's home.
There's still some minor room re-arranging to do. (And I'm suddenly taking up a renewed interest in decorating the space on the walls of this room.) The piano is fresh form a warehouse in Crystal Lake and so slightly out-of-tune as new pianos will be. We're to wait a month, play it is much as we can, and let it acclimate to its new environment before bringing in the tuner.
I'm pretty tickled. There's perhaps nothing I find more relaxing, more meditative, more bullshit cleansing then playing a piano. While an undergraduate at Ohio State, I'd make a daily pit stop at Hughes Hall. On the 5th floor there were a couple dozen or more practice rooms, all harboring pianos. Some old weather-beaten grands, but the majority had sparkling new Yamaha uprights. I'd place my backpack and jacket on a nearby chair, open a window, and play away any blues I had.
This weekend, Abby's Great-Grandma showed me all her piano scores. Drawers full. If I ever wanted to borrow any of them, I should feel free. I told her I couldn't read notes and she offered me a worn brochure of piano cord secrets revealed.
I think of all the people I know, Abby's Great-Gradma may be the person who best understands the gravity and joy of having a piano on hand.