November 23, 2006 Issue                                       

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©2006 The Chestnut Hill Local

Tale of musical generosity strikes a sour note
by DEBORAH WARD

George is seen here with his granddaughter, Molly, when she was 10 years old in 1985. George and his wife were visiting from their home in Madison, Wisconsin.

Last Tuesday I received a call from Susanna, the Korean woman who “bought” my father’s piano a while back. The beautiful baby grand piano had originally been purchased for my father when he was seven years old, in 1922. I always understood that he never actually took lessons, but played by ear.

In college, according to my mother, he played a “mean piano” on campus. Throughout his adult life, friends continued to gather around for raucous singing of the popular tunes of the 1930s and ‘40s. I grew up sitting next to my father on the piano bench before bed, sometimes harmonizing with my mother from the Fireside Book of Folk Songs, often just listening to his spontaneous, jazzy creations.

In 1971, my father inherited a better piano, and I moved his childhood baby grand into my first home in Mt. Airy. By then, the piano had two cracks in the sounding board, which greatly diminished the sound quality, necessitating frequent tuning. Every few years, I became obsessed with learning a new piece and could barely pass the piano without stopping to practice.

Once mastered, I’d play it once in a while, along with the oldies of my piano lesson days of the 1950s. But I was deriving less and less satisfaction out of the piano. It was usually out of tune; keys were tinny; some were silent. It was no longer a pleasure and was actually becoming a burden.

When none of my siblings expressed an interest in having and possibly rebuilding the piano, my brother wondered if its sale might help finance his new violin, that this might be a wonderful way to “carry on the music,” following our father’s death in 1999. (He and my mother, Genevieve Whitford, had moved to Chestnut Hill from Madison, Wisconsin, in 1990. They lived at the Hill House.)

And so I advertised. I called it a starter piano. For $500, a family could have a piano for their children and see if they were serious about learning to play. If so, the parents could later invest in a better piano. Several people came to check it out. Some expressed interest, but there were no takers. I advertised again in the local papers and reduced the price to $250. Again, several people came to see, but no takers.

Finally, I called Settlement Music School to see if they’d like a donation. A piano technician came out to evaluate the piano and said that while the school couldn’t use it, he felt a family might indeed want it for a couple of hundred dollars, and that he would post an ad on the bulletin board. Again several responses, no offers.

Finally, Susanna called. In broken English, she told of her brilliant six-year old son who had expressed an interest in piano lessons. Even though her husband was in Korea for a few months, she wanted to make a decision on her own and buy my piano for her son. She was sure her husband would be thrilled, but she didn’t have $200. She thought perhaps her church would pay for it. I told her of the piano’s problems and of the water stains on the wood finish. She needed to think.

A few days later she called in great excitement to say that she had a piece of cloth to place over the water stain, but that the church would not pay for the piano. I told her she could HAVE the piano, but she would need to pay the moving charges, which came to $250. I offered a payment plan. She said she would ask the church again, as well as friends and family members. A few days later she called back, her voice filled with sadness.

George Whitford, whose daughter, Deborah Ward, wrote this article, is seen with Debbie’s daughter, Molly, when she was 3 in 1978. (Debbie was 31.) The photo was taken at the Whitford home in Madison, Wisconsin. George died in 1999 at the age of 84.

“Okay,” I said. “I’ll pay the moving charges.” We set a moving date. As the movers walked out the door, they confirmed that the piano was going to a first floor location.

“Oh, no,” Susanna said when I phoned her. “It’s a third floor apartment, but I think the stairs are wide enough.” The piano was heavy; the movers were sweating. I doubted she would tip them. With the additional two floors and the tip, it now cost me $500 to get rid of the piano.

A week later, a man called who wanted to buy the piano for the original $500 and have it rebuilt. He and his wife each wanted their own piano.

I never heard from Susanna again, despite her expressed desire to show her gratitude by inviting me over for tea. I was sure the piano had been a disaster — expensive tuning costs, her living area completely dominated by the piano, her husband angry with her display of independence.

Last Tuesday, nearly two years later, she finally called with that invitation, which I have accepted for November 30. She wanted me to know how grateful she is; that she believes my father’s spirit is alive in her living room, inspiring her son, who loves the piano. The boy is thriving in his lessons at Settlement Music School, and now plays ”the minueta.” We will have tea and listen to a recital.

Deborah Ward is a resident of Mt. Airy.