The Native Iowan

While Grandma played piano. Sitting still was difficult. Sitting still was impossible. Others would sing or clap their hands. Most would sway back and forth. In time with the music. I was young. Too young to sit still. Too young to know the words. Too distracted to know what to do. While Grandma played piano.

While Grandma played piano. Her fingers dancing over the keys. Gershwin. The Broadway plays. Church songs. Nationalistic anthems. All sounded nice under Grandma’s control. Her pounding out that particular Souza number. Made you want to march around. Or the plaintive tones that become dominant in “We Three Men”.  Coming to life. While Grandma played piano.

While Grandma played piano. She read from large pages. Impossible to decipher.  Stored reverently in the piano’s seat. Put away after each use.  You knew they were powerful pages. They held the music’s life in them. In strange, ant like writings.  They were a mystery. A mystery that became a relaity. While Grandma played piano.

While Grandma played piano. Mysteries were revealed or proposed. What were the pedals for? Where did the cover for the keys go, when folded up? Why white and black keys? Why did the door, above the keyboard, make so much noise when opened up? Why did everyone smile so much? While Grandma played piano.

While Grandma played piano. Only one pedal was ever used. The other two were ignored. Perhaps shunned? She’d hook one heel on the bench and pump away with her other foot. But she only ever touched the one pedal. Were the others unnecessary? Perhaps too dangerous. There were too many mysteries. While Grandma played piano.

While Grandma played piano. I’d stare at her photos. It was an old “up-right”. Magnificently carved. Finely polished. Stout and domineering. A presence in the room. A lifetime of love. Arranged on top. Framed awards. Numerous pictures. Heavy, gilt frames. German beer stein with a plastic flower. All jiggling and dancing. While Grandma played piano.

While Grandma played piano. Grandpa would feign disinterest. He’d sit in his chair. Turn the TV up too loud.  He did not like crowds. Attention. As the others smiled and swayed. Enthralled by the melodies. Grandpa would feign disinterest. But, every time, his foot would happily be tapping a silent tattoo. While Grandma played piano.

While Grandma played piano. I said my goodbyes. She in her hospital bed. I with my ticket to fly. We talked for hours. Of the past and the future. Of the mysteries of life. Hers so long. Mine so short. We laughed. We cried. Then I said goodbye and walked away. While Grandma played piano.