My mother’s piano has lived and loved for three generations, so far. The upright Wurlitzer piano represents so much to me as the present owner. My grandfather, Papou George, bought this piano for his only child, my mother, back in the 1940’s approximately. I don’t have an exact date but figuring that my mother was old enough to take lessons, it would be around that decade. She was born in 1936 and moved to downtown Tulsa approximately 1946. I imagine a purchase like this was quite a trophy for my immigrant grandfather, a restauranteur. I envision now what it must’ve been like for him, emotionally, to provide this elaborate purchase for his little girl. How I admire him for promoting the arts like that.

Adding even more panache, he and my grandmother Irini, (who died before I was born), had hardback piano books inscribed for my mother with her name on the cover: Katherine Mary Hlepos. The covers are a patriotic red color with gold lettering and have their own book stand for the volume of eight books ranging from all genres of music. As a lover of fancy details, I cannot emphasize enough how important I thought Mom was to have customized books like this dedicated to her. It really shaped my understanding of her relationship with Papou (grandpa).

Many years after Mom learned to play on this piano, she and my father and older siblings moved back into her childhood home in Tulsa. (She lived in Bristow as well). Years later, I joined the family. The piano was the centerpiece of the living room (as it is for many family homes.) We all took piano lessons at the home of our piano teacher in downtown Tulsa and did our practices on our mother’s piano. I did not like to practice. At all. I was the dancer in the family and that was my focus but Mom lorded over my practices from afar—from the kitchen, chirping out to me, “Gina! slow down!”, “Gina, again…” and other commands to the effect of “do it better, etc.”. I painstakingly squeezed these practices in, suffering through them. I loved my piano teacher and her unique Victorian home but I did not love my piano lessons, necessarily. I loved the ambience of my teacher’s home and especially her daughter, an actual gypsy. I wrote a chapter about them in my first book, A Magic Carpet Ride, in fact. But dance and poetry were where my head was at and piano practicing just took up too much time, in my opinion. Papou must’ve sensed that this was a struggle for me and in an effort to assuage Mom’s disciplinary measures on me, he lovingly sat in the armchair beside the piano to cheer me on. He’d clap, clap, clap to the beat and praise me. How could I not LOVE this man and his support even more than I already did? I knew exactly what he was doing…he was empowering me with compliments and encouragement. More importantly, he was doing what every child craves and needs—someone to SIT with them and be in the moment. What a gift that is. Moms can get so busy with things and grandparents can swoop in and not be busy. I can feel his presence in this memory…his stillness, his humorous clapping and enthusiasm, his grandfatherliness. My Godmother and cousin recently reminded me that my big brother also comforted me during these practices. The piano was truly a gathering place for comfort and support despite my struggle, resistance, and frustration.

He must’ve cherished the generational legacy this piano was enduring as its life had now reached down into his grandchildren’s generation. After my piano teacher died, we found a new teacher…the organist from our church, a family friend. Now, my lessons were at my home on our very own piano. That was a new experience and Mom could listen in now on my lessons as well as my practices. My sister took piano lessons again through a college elective class and she began practicing piano after several years of previous lessons. Now, my grandfather and mother could hear more piano at home. My brother was very musical and had moved on to an interest in guitar. I remember his guitar lessons with our cousins. The sound of music coming from his bedroom and all of the albums he exposed me to from classical music to contemporary…he was a plethora of knowledge. I knew as an elementary school girl who Wagner (the classical composer) was and that it’s pronounced “Vagner” with a  schwa /A/. Big brothers are so cool. So are big sisters.

After mom died and we were moving into our own homes, we started to claim items that were special to us. I wanted the piano. It was ironic in a way but the piano symbolized so much to me about Mom, Papou, family. I would eventually move back into that home, anyway, so the piano was able to stay put. I wanted to take the piano to my first rental home as a newlywed. Wisely, my father and step-mom suggested it should not endure a move and should instead wait for me in the family home.

A few years later, when I was expecting our first child, I played the piano daily for my son. I read that babies in the womb who listen to music will be musical. I embraced that and snuggled my huge pregnant belly up to those piano keys and played the heck out of that piano. Muzio Clementi is my game. Sure enough, that baby (Luke) ended up having perfect pitch when his piano teacher assessed this about him at age six. All three of our sons took piano lessons and practiced on this same piano. (7 people have learned to play on this three generations piano.) My husband supported this and I admire him for that. I went to their piano lessons at their elementary school where they learned under the tutelage of the most gentlemanly, Mr. Dixon and then the dear Mrs. McCoy. It was thirty minutes of me being still and captivated for my children. There are many other times we are still for our children in their hobbies and extra-curricular activities but this was my special time with them to be still in our shared hobby. Mr. Dixon taught them how to do a proper gentlemanly bow which might’ve been even better than the lessons themselves! Bowties had an excuse to be worn at their piano recitals and I loved this fashion element. The boys eventually continued lessons at Preslar Studios on Cherry Street where they learned contemporary stylings.

Over the years, I showed our sons the various songs I remember Mom playing out of those inscribed books: Funiculi, Funicula, I Dream of Jeannie with the light brown hair (jazz). She played them with me. Mom was still. I didn’t realize that until now. There were spirituals, Christmas songs, jazz, patriotic hymns,….we perused those books, together.  Neither Mom nor I were that good at piano. We stumbled on some notes but I liked the diligence and commitment of our attitude about this art.  I showed my sons the very same songs later in our home. How do you explain to your children who their grandmother was when they’ve never met her? They are beyond blessed to know their amazing paternal grandmother and their grandmother; my amazing stepmother who have defined their entire childhoods. But the reality is, they don’t know their maternal grandmother. Every Christmas, I sat with my sons on the piano bench and we’d belt out the Christmas carols like Mom and I would do on Christmas mornings. Sometimes, I’d cry. Okay, every year I cried but I eventually coached myself to not cry on Christmas morning because I knew it was difficult and uncomfortable for our sons. I do realize that it’s alright for children to experience your emotions and vulnerability, though.

Now, one of the greatest gifts my sons give to me is when I hear them play on my mother’s piano. They take such great care of it that they remind me when it needs tuning. When they can and they are here (from college), I involve them in watching the piano be tuned. They play piano for our guests when I ask them to. (My only “stage mom” moment). They entertain guests at parties and on holidays. I beam and look at my guests, especially my maternal relatives and tell them, “They are playing on Mom’s piano, Thea Mary! or “Look, Thea Freda, Eleni (my young cousin) is playing on Mom’s piano.” These aunts were my mother’s first cousins who she grew up with in the same house along with Thea Helen. The last big party we had, two of those aunts were here and we had that emotional moment together celebrating my mother’s memory. Often, we have little talent shows where my sons and their cousin play duets on that piano. I cherish these evenings.

My sons have excelled at piano where I did not. They have the musical ear from their paternal side of the family. One of them re-taught himself how to play by watching YouTube videos. Eventually, he asked me to re-show him the notes on the scale which enhanced his playing by ear.  He, being the youngest in the family (like me), showed such perseverance in re-learning piano. It’s like he channels Cole Porter when he tickles those ivories. I don’t know which son will end up with our piano. I jokingly tell them, “Whichever one of you has a daughter named after me will inherit the piano.” Two of them play it the most so I also jokingly tell them they’ll have to split custody of it. Maybe those two who prioritize piano and instruments the most will end up with grand pianos of their own and they’ll give their middle brother the piano to inspire him to play it again. When their fingers glide over the same keys my mother, siblings and I learned to play piano on, I feel the continuity and bond of our family. Devoted piano tunings and careful cleaning touch ups to this old “family member” of ours breathes life into her. What we can’t do with people, we can do with furniture. Nostalgia.

The piano is the centerpiece of our home. It’s approximately 80 years old. It’s the last thing I see when I go upstairs to bed and one of the first things I see in the morning when I descend the stairs. I realize that one day when our sons refer to “my mother’s piano”, they’ll be talking about me.

©Gina Michalopulos Kingsley