Diamonds in the Rough

Even the booking of today's tuning was a little different. The phone call came a couple weeks ago from a pleasant sounding woman who said she was making the call for her backdoor neighbor. Mr. J needed his piano tuned. She was calling to check on the price and to schedule a convenient date. I asked her how long it had been since Mr. J's piano had been serviced. She paused and then said she would put him on the phone. Odd, I thought she was making the call because he was at work or something and unable to personally speak with me. Mr. J gave me the information needed. He owns a Steinway grand. It had been tuned about a year ago, but since then one bass string had broken. I told him my tuning fee and he scheduled the tuning for today.

This morning I slept in a bit and once I did get going with breakfast and shower was dreading the tuning job. Having a string break on it's own is not a good sign, nor was I relishing dealing with ordering a replacement and the subsequent repeat visits to install and tune it. I'm in a 'give me simple' mood. Nevertheless, with tuning gear in hand, I headed out for the 10:30 appointment.

Mr. J's place was about a fifteen minute drive and easy to find. But what a place. As I approached and parked in the gravel drive, it was difficult to convince myself to stay. His house looked like a small, old barn. Added on and patched however the mood swayed carpentry. It was two stories tall. With a deep breath I gathered my tool kit and headed for the aged front door. Rough sawn and slightly beaten, it did boast one small window, a kitty door, and an enormous door knocker. As I rapped with the knocker, I stole a cautious glance through the window. It didn't look good. My quick view didn't show ordinary living quarters. To the right, and in a little, was a large utilitarian sink. To the left, haphazard storage. I stepped back from the pane as I heard footsteps approaching from inside.

Mr. J seemed to be in his late sixties or early seventies. I found it very hard to tell exactly. He was disheveled but clean and somewhat reserved. I extended my hand as I introduced myself and my purpose for being there. He commented that he had forgotten my name but did remember our appointment. Since all I could see was the old sink and lots of piles of 'barn-ish' storage, I asked where he was hiding the piano. Mr. J said it was upstairs. At that point I noticed the worn staircase to my right that had been hidden from outside view and hauled myself and tools upward. Mr. J followed. Halfway up I saw a kitty bowl filled with water on a small landing.

Upon arriving on the second floor I was greeted by an expansive view of Ipswich Bay hampered only by the white streaks of thermal glass panes gone bad. I made a quick assessment of my surroundings. The second floor was one large room. I was standing in the 'living room' section. I looked further and saw the old Steinway at the far end. As I approached the piano, still looking around, I spotted Mr. J's bed on the left. A double sized mattress on the floor. Mr. J's house seemed as disheveled as Mr. J.! The lid to the piano was open so I set my tool case down by the bench and had a look inside the Steinway. It wasn't a pretty view. What should have been bright and shiny was layered in gobs of rust. Everything steel was host to the orange-y brown parasite, including moderately sized patches of the cast iron plate.

I was thrilled with this discovery. Nothing better than piles of rust to justify my exit. I pointed out the problems inherent with trying to tune a piano with such decay to Mr. J. He was unfazed. I told him that ethically and professionally, I felt it best that a tuning not be attempted. I told him that there would be no service charge. Still he wanted me to try. I knew I had dreaded this appointment for some reason! Not many sounds worse to a piano tuner than strings breaking or the plate cracking. I got everything ready to start and then closed the lid. Better for breaking tensioned steel to hit the interior of the piano than me. Luckily, things weren't too far off, tuning-wise, and I gingerly began making some fine adjustments where needed. And only where needed.

About fifteen nerve-racking minutes into the tuning, I heard Mr. J holler, "MoMo get over here!" I turned to see Mr. J grabbing on to a cat's tail trying to 'haul'er in'. A split second later there was even more commotion. MoMo let go of a field mouse and it scurried across the floor and under a couch. Then the fun began! MoMo was frantic. She couldn't find her new playmate. Mr. J was frantic because he couldn't either! They both searched and searched and scolded each other. Finally MoMo headed out to find another friend while Mr. J continued his search. After ten minutes, or so, even he gave up. I told him that between a rusty piano and a loose mouse in the house, he was fortunate that I was still there! He said he usually just catches the mice in his hand and carries them outside to free them.

Wonderful. But where was that mouse?

Remarkably, after temporarily forgetting about the newest, tiniest house guest, and after an hour of tentative tuning waiting for the snap. The snap never happened. The piano was tuned with not one string breaking. I advised Mr. J that paying to replace the one broken string was probably not an economically sound choice. It's absence was not perceptible being one of a pair. It's partner was still there for that note. I sat down at the key board and played a short passage of ragtime. Afterwards, Mr. J sat down and performed a stunning piece of 30's jazz. He was totally amazing.

I wonder what was.