Finding a Tune

A flood of memories came rushing to me as I walked through my grandparents’ old house. I remembered the aroma of grandma’s homemade cookies wafting from the kitchen. I remember sitting on the porch with fresh-squeezed lemonade after swimming in the river. I remembered grandpa educating me about automobile engines. He had a wealth of knowledge, and he was willing to share. He would yell from under the car, “Tim, hand me the ¾ inch socket wrench.” I learned about tools quickly and enjoyed being his helper.

Grandma and Grandpa raised me as their own when my father disappeared after my mom died of an overdose. I was eight. They didn’t tell me much about their daughter, with one exception.

I slowly approached the old, upright piano in the living room. It was dusty. I opened the lid. Some of the keys were chipped. Some were stuck in unnatural positions. I played a one-handed C major scale. The instrument was horribly out of tune.

My mind flashed back to grandma playing Mozart, Chopin, and Rachmaninoff. Her fingers flew effortlessly over the keys. She could have been a professional. I would listen while I did my homework, and from my bed upstairs before drifting off to sleep.

Sometimes, my grandfather would grumble, saying, “You call that music, woman? Move over.” He favored the music of Scott Joplin. While lacking grandma’s finesse, he played with gusto. The happiest I ever saw him was when he was at the piano.

Inevitably, the two of them would join forces, playing old hymns, such as The Old Rugged Cross, Amazing Grace, or When the Saints Go Marching In. This is when their styles came together remarkably well.

Occasionally, they would tell me how my mom had played in the high school jazz band. I tried to picture her improvising a solo to the delight and amazement of audiences, but sadly, I hardly recalled what she looked like.

My musical talent peaked at Twinkle, Twinkle Little Star and Mary Had a Little Lamb. Grandma and Grandpa tried to teach me, but I was more interested in tearing things apart to see how they worked and putting them back together to the best of my ability.

After I was done “working on it,” our poor toaster launched our food a foot in the air. I did manage to fix an old CB radio. Grandpa put it in his old pickup truck and let me talk to truckers a couple of times. I think they got as much of a kick out of listening to a kid as I did when I said stuff like, “Hey there, Big Daddy, you got your ears on?”

My grandparents were so proud of me when I joined the Army and ended up in the motor pool. They told me I should make a career of it. When I mustered out after my four years and decide not to reenlist, grandpa threatened to disown me. I didn’t talk with him much after that. I was busy getting on with life.

I opened a full-service garage, and I met the love of my life, Sue Ellen, when she came in for an oil change. Just as we were preparing wedding invitations, my grandfather called, saying grandma had a stroke. She didn’t survive. While I was home for the funeral, grandpa had a heart attack and also passed away. I don't think he wanted to live without her. Although I was in grief, I was relieved that I had a chance to speak with him and hold him in my arms.

I couldn’t help being sad for our future without them. My fiancée was expecting a girl. Now, my daughter will never smell her great-grandmother’s homemade cookies. She will never get to tinker on cars with her great-grandfather.

But I am determined to make sure that she learns to play the piano. That is, after I get it fixed and tuned. I don’t care what she plays, as long as she loves it. I can’t wait to see her face light up as her fingers glide over the keys, delighting and amazing audiences, even if that just means me and her mom.