My mom was born in 1940. When she was about eleven or twelve, her parents brought home this old upright player piano. It had been painted white, came with a few rolls, and was already pretty beat up. Her parents told her she could do whatever she wanted with it. So she and her friends wrote on it, signed it, carved into it, and played it constantly.

When my mom grew up and moved out, her parents sold the piano to a bar in Oakland, California. The bar kept it for years, turned it electric, and gave it a few more scars. Eventually, the bar closed and sold the piano again to another family.

Years later, my mom decided she wanted it back. She tracked it down, bought it, and brought it home — looking rougher than ever. She let us treat it just like she had: climbing on top, pretending to be saloon singers, and carving our names into the wood. When my parents divorced, the piano came with us to Seattle, where it lived in the basement for years. [PHOTOS]

My Uncle Howard playing the piano in the early 1950s. You can see all the signatures and doodles covering it even back then.(Left)
The piano when it came to me, chipped, yellowed, and tired, but still hanging on. (Right)

I eventually grew up, had two daughters, and the piano kept doing what it always had,  playing rolls, filling the house with noise, and connecting one generation to the next. 

Then one day my mom called to say she was selling it. “It’s ugly, and it just takes up space,” she said. I told her fine. But when she called back months later and said it was actually leaving, I couldn’t let it go.

So we rolled it down the street, literally, from her house to mine. Once it was in my basement, I called a piano repairman to see if it could even be saved.

He took one look and said, “That’s the ugliest piano I’ve ever seen.” But when he opened it up, he changed his mind: “Inside, it’s perfect. You should fix this.”

So I did. I’d never refinished anything before, but I decided to learn. I stripped off the old paint, cleaned the ivory keys, and brought out the warm wood underneath. It took time, but when it was done, the piano was beautiful again — not new, just fully itself. [PHOTOS2]

My youngest daughter and her friends playing the piano...same music rolls, same laughter, but this time it’s shining.(Left) 
My daughter taking piano lessons online during COVID. (Right)

These days, my daughters are 20 and 30. They’ve both moved on to their own lives, but the piano still sits downstairs, ready for whoever comes next. I hope someday my grandkids get to play it, roll the old songs, and add their own memories to the story.

And if they decide not to tote it around, that’s fine too. The piano’s had a long run. The story of the family piano, and the people who played it, will last either way.

-Viccy S.