The piano had been out of tune for ages. It was moved twice. One key would even stick when pressed down. Other notes were a few steps off. Finally, I called a piano tuner. He and I scheduled an appointment and I made certain I was home. When he didn’t show, I called.
“I lost my datebook. It had all my appointments in it, all my numbers,” he said. ”It’s created a complete mess in my life. I don’t know when or where I’m supposed to be.”
I laughed and said, “Life is like that sometimes and then it sorts itself out.”
He seemed relieved I wasn’t angry.
We rescheduled.
When the piano tuner arrived at my front door, he had orange hair, black glasses and carried a bag of tools. He was surprisingly young. Most piano tuners I had met seemed to be part of an ancient craft passed on from generation to generation and reflected the age of the tradition. I didn’t know anyone young who got into tuning. Often our new world seems too fast and scattered for such deliberate work.
I moved the music and the lamp off the piano and got the area set up so he could work. Then I went to my office. I was exhausted. The weekend before was daylight savings and I hadn’t reset the sprinkler timer. Each morning, I listened to the grass being watered at four a.m.. By four in the afternoon, I was tired.
I lay on the floor in my office and listened to the piano tuner working. I heard him plinking away at notes- plink, plink, plink. He adjusted the pitch. I heard him get one note right and then move on to the next– plink, plink, plink. There was something meditative about hearing a note off key being played, adjusted, played, adjusted, until it was on.
I lay on the floor and called different people I thought would tell me good stories. I had nothing to share. I merely wanted to be entertained. I called my aunt and fortunately she answered.
“I’m lying on the floor of my office listening to the piano tuner,” I said.
“That’s lovely,” my Aunt Mary Lou said. My aunt usually finds the details of the present moment lovely.
She told me her back had gone out recently and that she was learning how to point. I didn’t know what she meant and she clarified.
“I kept getting angry at Phil,” she said. (Phil is my uncle.)
“I kept getting angry that he wasn’t doing what I wanted him to do,” Mary Lou said. ”And then I realized I had to tell him what I wanted him to do. And so now I ask and I point. I say, “Phil would you rake those leaves and put them in a pile over there.” And you know, it’s remarkable, because when I ask and point, he does it.”
Mary Lou and I laughed.
Her story reminded me of my friend Gini. Gini has twin boys and she would often share their stories with me. Her twins came home from school one day and told her about a boy at their bus stop. They were all in fourth grade. Apparently, a boy named Timmy was complaining about his lunch.
“I hate my lunch,” Timmy told the twins. “I hate it, I hate it, I hate.”
The twins consoled him.
“It’s the same thing every day,” Timmy said. ”Day in and day out, it’s always the same.”
One of the twins piped up with an earnest suggestion for Timmy, “Why don’t you ask your mom to put something different in your lunch?”
Timmy immediately refuted the suggestion.
“That wouldn’t change anything,” Timmy told the twins. ”I make my own lunch.”
I listened to the piano tuner working. Plink, plink, plink. I heard notes asking to be changed. I heard someone listening and responding.
When the piano tuner finished, he called me on my cell phone. I was in the room next door, but he couldn’t find me. I got up off the floor, found my wallet and my way to the living room. I sat down on the couch to pay him.
Our piano is a black, upright Kawai. We purchased it used years ago. I’ve had visions of purchasing a grand piano someday.
“What’s the best piano out there?” I asked.
The piano tuner’s eyes sparkled. ”I always get asked this question. Everyone always wants to know– what’s the best piano. And I always say, the piano that’s in your living room.”
The piano tuner ran his hands over the keys, played a scale and then a few notes. Our piano sounded much better. ”I fall in love with each piano,” he said more to my piano that to me. ”It’s all about getting it tuned right, bringing out its own sound and then when you play, you play the piano that’s in front you, and you see what it can really do. That’s all there is really. Tuning it and then playing what you’ve got.”
I gave him his check. The front door closed. I put the music back on the piano. I set up the lamp too. I didn’t need to turn on the light. He already had. I just had to listen.
Plink, plink, plink.