2004-02-25 at 4:41 p.m.
It's odd how people can become attached to inanimate objects. Teddy bears, for example. Blankies. Old T-shirts. Flame throwers. Sequinned parachute pants. All of these and more can become treasured possessions, even if the thing itself is a piece of utter crap. Particularly if the thing itself is a piece of utter crap*.
This week, I sold the Baldwin piano I've been learning, practising and playing on for the past sixteen years.
My parents bought it when I was seven, and newly venturing into the exciting world of music. (Little did I know of the trails, tortures, frustrations, and rampant alcoholism that this clunky box of wood, strings and felt (and other clunky boxes like it) would lead to.) This piano got me through eight piano grades, countless eisteddfods, my higher school certificate, and five years of university level music study. Not a bad partnership, all things considered.
However, the time had come to move on. I found the relationship between us simply wasn't working anymore. I'd grown. I'd matured. I wanted more. I wanted the ability to produce a nice tone. I wanted to be able to depress the 'A' key without it becoming hopelessly stuck. I wanted to be able to open a door and not have the entire piano go instantly out of tune.
On Monday, I sold my compatriot of sixteen years to the family of one of my piano students. I can only hope that this will start the cycle of stress, torment and alcoholism in another generation of musicians.
As for the piano I bought to replace the Baldwin-
You know what? I'm beginning to miss the Baldwin a whole lot less.
*The term 'crap' will never apply to sequinned parachute pants, which are always the height of cool.
