Grand music

This is the last day of August, and I'd like to say good riddance to such a mean, sweltering month.

But I can't. Something extraordinarily good happened this month. And I will always remember this particular August as a good month no matter what.

To tell this story, I need you to go back nearly 55 years. That was the year my mother bought a used upright piano with a beautifully polished finish and put it on the north wall of the living room in the old farmhouse on Killough Valley in the Ozarks over yonder near my favorite hometown.

I had already been introduced to fine music, thanks to a portable phonograph and a collection of 78-rpm records of well-known themes from operas and symphonies. The music was even more appealing to young listeners because simple lyrics had been written for each piece of music, and after you'd listened to one of the records for the umpteenth time you could sing along.

Of course, at that age I had no idea I was listening to operas and symphonies. Fortunately, our first television set brought Leonard Bernstein and the New York Philharmonic into our home for his "Young People's Concerts." I soaked up every note like a sponge.

The piano teacher for youngsters in my favorite hometown was Mrs. Handford. Ethel Handford was a tiny woman with white hair drawn up around her head. The first time I met Mrs. Handford I was 8 years old, and I immediately noticed that I was taller than Mrs. Handford. And she had the tiniest feet I had ever seen on an adult.

Mrs. Handford had attended the Ursuline Academy in Arcadia, Mo., for her high school years. While there, a famous European concert pianist made a grand tour of America and wound up in Arcadia. Mrs. Handford was enormously proud of having played for this pianist, whose name I cannot remember (maybe Paderewski during his 1,500-concert U.S. tour in 1913?). She would show her students a framed photograph of the man and say, "If you practice every day, you could be famous, too." I believed her.

Mrs. Handford also was fond of saying that anyone who worked really hard at playing the piano could perform in Carnegie Hall in New York City, New York. That, she said, would be the finest thing that could ever happen to any of her students. I believed her.

One more thing about Mrs. Handford and her weekly lessons for 50 cents: She had the only grand piano in town. And while I loved the upright we had at home, I adored that grand piano.

From the moment I laid eyes on Mrs. Handford's piano, I knew I wanted one. I might not become a world-famous pianist. I might not perform at Carnegie Hall. But I might -- just might, if I worked really hard -- someday own a grand piano.

That's what happened this hot, miserable August. For 40-plus years my wife has listened to me pine for a grand piano the way a boy lovingly refers to a Red Ryder BB gun (which, by the way, my wife gave me for my 55th birthday a few years ago). This year she said, "Go buy a piano. You need it." I believed her.

The piano was set up in our living room on Monday by a fine crew from Shivelbine's Music Store. It is sleeker and shinier than any new car we've ever owned. It is a piece of art full of opulent sound.

By the way, in the late 1960s shortly after Car­negie Hall had been saved from the wrecking ball, my wife and I were living in New York. After a walk through Central Park one day, we passed Carnegie Hall and decided to go inside to take a look. The Main Hall was empty except for a piano tuner on stage with the biggest grand piano I have ever seen. We asked if we could stay for a few minutes. "Do either of you play the piano?" he asked. "I need someone to play so I can sit out there and listen."

Seconds later I was playing "The Missouri Waltz." About eight bars into the piece, the tuner yelled, "OK, that's enough!"

Oh my gosh. It was plenty. I had just performed at Carnegie Hall.

R. Joe Sullivan is the editor of the Southeast Missourian.