I was driving to Dad’s to begin playing the piano for him once a week. It was 5:20 pm and everyone was on their way home from a long hot day of work. Streets in the city are not quite like the streets in small town USA, and traffic was steady in four lanes, stop lights serving as pauses on the journey to get from here to there.

There was no stoplight in the middle of the block, but the brake lights in front of me lit up and we all slowed down and came to a complete stop. Hazard lights began flashing and I immediately thought she had car trouble and I was in the wrong lane. When she opened her car door and held up her hands to stop the traffic in the next lane, I watched what would happen next, and then I saw it.

A little box turtle was attempting to cross the busy street, apparently trying to get home from its long day of work, too.

The woman made a few hesitant grabs at the shell as the turtle tried to scramble, but she mustered up enough bold to pick up the little guy and march him across three lanes of traffic to his destination, waving, apologizing, and bowing her way back to her hazard lights as several of us in the traffic audience clapped and gave her thumbs ups.

*****

I arrived at Dad’s and noticed a few ladies sitting around the piano. I didn’t see Dad or my sister, so I went up to his apartment to let him know I was there. We made our way back downstairs and I realized that I was not only playing for Dad, but for these friends of his who had gathered at 5:30 to hear some music.

I learned to play the piano on a heavy old upright with family pictures sitting on top in frames, sometimes joined by a Siamese cat named, “Sneakers.” The ivory keys were yellowed and some of them were chipped on the ends. It was a wonderful old piano and served as our tornado shelter since it was the heaviest thing in the house and could house two little girls underneath. I know. Makes no sense now, but it was what we knew to do then.

When Dad and Mom made the decision to move when I was 14 and the only child left in the house, they decided it was not worth it to have to move the big old piano, and Dad made arrangements to purchase a brand new Yamaha studio piano from the music store one block away from his gas station.

That Yamaha took me through concerto contests and Guild contests, through many hours of piano lesson practicing and Chorale accompanying. I remember the days I “had to” practice with Mom so she could sing and record herself singing “Grandma’s Feather Bed,” or a number of other songs and hymns for special occasions. “Had to…”and now if only I could bring those moments back.

When I was married, the piano went with me. It was an albatross to the one who had to move it, but I could not imagine life without my Yamaha. It went to Texas and became the instrument I taught lessons on. It was the instrument that taught my girls the basics, although it became quite apparent I was not their best teacher and they were destined to do other things.

Over the married years, the piano moved 5+ times. I continued to use it for giving lessons and accompanying aspiring instrumentalists and vocalists for their contests and recitals.

*****

I also used it for therapy. It was my silent counselor, my place to go for all the unloading of emotions that I felt down deep but could not express any other way. It listened to my cry, it allowed me to sing when I was happy, and it gave me words when I had none on my lips.

*****

When life ended as I had always known, my Yamaha ended up in a storage unit on 4th street, just waiting for its re-entry as a useful contributor to society. It found its final resting place on the first floor of an apartment building on Farley Street.

And that is where it serves others now. That is where Marilyn gave her gift of music to her fellow residents and neighbors. Dad would hear her music on the 2nd floor and come down to hear her play. Now that Marilyn is moving, he asked that I come and make the Yamaha sing every week.

So, that is what I will do. I play hymns. It is what is inside me. And that is what comes out. It is nice to be playing my old Yamaha once again. Yamaha has been through life with me, and every Thursday will be a reunion, a “getting together with an old friend.”

I am grateful today for my Yamaha that is now shared with others and found its rightful home on Farley Street.

I am grateful that my Yamaha was like that turtle – bound for its destination and determined to get there. It has a purpose and even in its old age, it can and will continue to serve others.

I am grateful for a small group of people who don’t care if I am rusty and make several mistakes. They are giving me a gift that I didn’t even realize I still needed.

I am grateful that Dad wanted me to play for him…