Piano Tuning

It creates a long, slow, aimless

tune, a dirge for a labor, blues

of the piano itself. Vibrations

that have wobbled and warped

get hauled back to pitch and harmony.

The tuner cranks a ratchet--

he's a melody mechanic,

an interpreter of intervals.

After a long slumber, 

the highest and lowest

notes wake up. The musicking

of tuning fills the room

with foreboding, making

a nest for songs that hands will

ask the piano to play later. 

Bartok and the Stars

 (second version)

"The ways of life are infinite and mysterious."- Georgio Scerbanenco, Traitors to All, translated by Howard Curtis

In spite of my playing, the piano

produced a simple minuet by Bartok, 

which made me think of walking

cautiously across a frozen pond.

An empty coffee cup sat there

on the bookshelf. Cool ceramic.

Out there, and "up":  night.

And stars, which we think of

as a permanent installation, 

not a chaotic map of explosions

or freckles on an infinite face.

I dream recurrently about new

stars, close and bright, 

flowing past in a sky-parade

as I look up from a meadow

in mountains and watch, 

thrilled and terrified. I almost

forget to breathe. Someone I can't see

says, "Words are stars. I've

told you that before. Many times."

Of Time and the Chickering

I like to give jazz standards
a good bruising on the old Chickering
parlor grand piano, which long ago
was rescued from the Buckhorn Lodge,
a bar in the High Sierra where whiskey
had been sloshed on some of the hammers.
Good times. I really can count
beats and measures, honest. But

I get distracted. I dawdle or rush,
freeze or trip. My fingers suddenly
turn into bear paws, then shrink
again back to size. Much depends
upon the weather, the atmospheric
pressure, the presence or absence
of crows in the area.  Anything
Ellington can mesmerize me,
and I start thinking about how
in the harlem he ever came up
with that chord or phrase. Sometimes

I just look into the deep brown
varnish of the Chickering, or stare
at the decal, Johnson Piano Company,
Portland, Oregon, and I wonder
what the route was from Boston
to Portland to Sierra City and finally
for a while, Tacoma, where the piano
had earned a restoration, where
it sat beside Cher's white piano,
which had also entered rehab.

I salve the blond
nicks with linseed oil
and always throw away
the rag. A tuner comes in
regularly, praises the tone,
rich and seasoned, whiskey-
tempered, long suffering
with regard to my drifts
into alternate space-time keyboards.


hans ostrom 2018

The Stuff That Came His Way

The Stuff That Came His Way

Yes, this is about the stuff that came his way

and his way with the stuff. By barter, whim,

or accident, odd items came my father's way.

An huge green spotlight from a Navy

destroyer. He wired the light, placed it outside,

and shined it on the mountain. Why?

. . .An ornate barber's chair--porcelain, chrome,

and leather. It occupied our living-room for

a year. He called it a "conversation piece."

I did not know what that term meant. . . .

A hand-made cross-bow. A mahogany

nutcracker in the shape of a naked woman:

the legs did the cracking (very funny). An

upright porcelain urinal, which he left outside,

leaning against a cedar tree. Dynamite. Mercury.

A Chickering grand piano, made in Boston but first

sold in Portland, Oregon. A ukelele. Hand-made

skis. An antique mechanical apple-peeler. Square

nails. Antique barbed wire. Petrified wood. A

bona fide jalopy, which he rigged to drive

a big-bladed buzz-saw. Bamboo fishing rods,

wire and pipe of all kinds, and a Chinese nightstick.

The intrinsic value of all these things was immediately

clear to me. That they had arrived and were mysterious

was all the verification I required. My father used some

of this stuff, laughed at most of it, misplaced some, and gave

a lot away to anyone who made the mistake of showing

or feigning interest. "Hell, take it--it's yours," he'd say.

It wasn't theirs. It wasn't his. It wasn't anyone's:

that was the problem. Toward all the stuff, my mother

remained skeptical, cooly tolerant. She liked the piano.

She laughed, once, at the nutcracker shaped like a woman.

As for the rest: it was from her point of view part of a

domain mismanaged with great authority by her husband,

my father, who was a kind of intersection of the Dadaist

Movement, of which he wasn't aware, and Daniel Boone.

I have a piece of cinnabar someone gave him. It's very

heavy for its size. I'm hanging on to it. The piano's in

my livingroom. I'm restoring his Ford pickup. His stuff,

it came my way. Like him, I'm a magnet for stuff.

*

Copyright 2009 Hans Ostrom

Traveling Piano

June 10, 2008

Our piano, a smaller kind of grand piano--parlor grand?--was finally released from the custody of storage--and then tuned.

Therefore, I can hack away at 30s and 40s ballads, Broadway songs, and very simple classical and ragtime things. I'm essentially self-taught, so I had the worst possible instructor, although my mother attempted to give me formal lessons when I was in 7th grade. It's basically chords and melodies for me. I'm good at reading the guitar chords above the melody, a short-cut for the left hand. I like the ballads in part because of their lyrics; e.g., "I got it bad, and that ain't good,' but also for the rich chords, with which one can improvise.

The piano's more interesting than the player pounding on it. It's a Chickering, made in Boston in the 1920s or 1930s. Our tuner says the Chickering craftspeople worked without a blueprint, so every piano has its own design-personality. A decal on the piano has the dealer's name--the Johnson Piano Company in Portland, Oregon. So we know the piano traveled--by train or boat, I guess--from Boston to Portland. (The photo here is of a Chickering that has a more ornate music-stand gizmo than ours.)

Then the piano's biography becomes quite fuzzy--until the piano ends up in a bar in my hometown, way up in the Sierra Nevada. They guy who owned it had bought the bar from my uncle. How the guy got the piano, nobody seems to remember. Then he got married--to a woman he later characterized as a "gold-digger," and she divorced him. So he hid or gave away lots of stuff to keep it away from her. He gave the piano to my father, probably as barter for some work. So my mother played it a bit, and I started playing it. In one octave, the notes always sounded tinny because somebody in the bar had spilled some whiskey on the hammers. After my parents died, we had the piano shipped up to the Pacific Northwest--through Portland again, as karma would have it.

It also happens to be a player-piano, and we have a huge box of the old Ampico piano rolls. Before radio got really popular, people gathered around a player piano and had a good time. But the player-part--a very complicated system that literally involves plumbing--doesn't work. We had the parts removed, and we kept them, so some day we'll restore the thing to its original state. We've already had the piano itself restored--new hammers, strings, felt, etc.

The Chickering has become like a member of the family--a member that weighs 800 pounds, even without the the player-piano equipment. I wish my two hands could get the keyboard going up to its specifications, but I do what I can. The best part is thinking about how much the piano, like a blues musician, has traveled. At the moment, it seems content in this house. It doesn't yet have those traveling blues.