My first recollection of music was my grandmother's 1910 Cable Nelson Player Piano. I vaguely remember being told my grandmother's father, Parley Hodson bought it when my grandmother was born in 1913. He more than likely purchased it used. I know very little about my great grandfather Hodson.
One morning while playing a prelude at Lindquist Mortuary, a tall aged man, with white hair walks over to me and starts speaking, "so you're Parley's granddaughter." Catching me off guard, I realized the man who was speaking to me as John Lindquist, a pillar of the community, and a generous man. The very same man my family has relied on for funerals as long as I can remember. The name Parley is so far removed from my life, I wasn't sure who he meant. Suddenly, I made the connection, " You knew my great grandfather? How did you know him? What was he like? "
" Ohhhh, I was only a kid, your grandfather was an Ogden City Cemetery Caretaker." Now, I understand the connection with Mr. Lindquist, and my dad's family a little better. We conversed for a few minutes, I cannot play the organ and talk very well, it requires two hands, and both feet, my eyes and my ears, and a bit of concentrated coordination, so it was a halted conversation and we agreed to speak after the funeral.
We never did. The Lindquist family has been generous to the community of Ogden. It really was a pleasure and a privilege to speak to Mr. Lindquist about my great grandfather who is largely responsible for my love of music, while playing the organ. With that being said ....
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By the time I came along in the late 1960's, the player piano no longer worked. Many of the white of the ivory keys, were missing the of ivory, the ebony keys were worn and scarred. Several of the keys when pushed down, played multiple keys. It was in rough shape and hadn't been tuned for years. I must have been four or five, but I could "hear" the music in my head. I would then use one hand to pick out familiar little tunes. I was fascinated with pianos and organs. I loved to watch the women play during church services, I wanted to be play beautiful music. I dreamed of being on stage and playing concerts.
On Sundays, when we visited my grandmothery, I'd wait for a little while before I'd casually go over to the corner and start playing. Children were to be seen and not heard, so tinkering on the piano had to be done very carefully. Most of the time, I'd be told to stop by any number of people. However, if it was a Saturday, and I was alone with Grandma, I could play to my heart's content.
I loved the music. I wanted to play. I'd take my short little hands, running them up and down the keys as if I could assuredly play. I probably played "Mary had a little lamb" a hundred times. Eventually I adding, "London Bridge, Three Blind Mice, and I Am A Child Of God" to my one handed repetoire
One Saturday afternoon when I was around seven years old, I headed to the corner of the front room. To my horror, in the place of the piano, was a small quiet book case.
"Where's the piano?"
One of my two mean spirited uncles piped up, "We told you we were going to dump it in the river!"
Then the other mean uncle with a slight speech impediment piped in, "That good for nothin' piano is gone, so we don't have to heawr you make any noise no mowre."
The river ran about a quarter mile east of my grandmother's house. It curled through farm ground and had been used for a dump. I'd never seen the river, other than driving over the bridge. I'd heard of tales of quicksand, and flooding, all my life. At seven, it held every foreboding danger my mind could imagine with mean uncles who lied pretty frequently, kept any curiosity to see for myself, under control.
I asked someone else who seemed a little kinder, "where's the piano? Expecting something different, the answer devastated me. "The boys took it up to the river."
"The boys" were actually grown men that still lived at home. They were in their twenties, and the were famous for the bad things they'd done. They tortured dogs, told stories of putting sugar in gas tanks to get even with someone.
They were giant men, big, large and loud. The two of them could just as well been the villians in a movie. The largest of the two, looming over everyone and everything at six feet four, had immense hands but a distinct Mickey Mouse type high pitched voice. The other uncle, more round than tall and seemed to only know a few sentences, one of which, he always told me and my female cousins, "You ain't no little gill... you's a boy and I'm gonna cut yur eawr off." He couldn't say words with "r" in it very well, so we were never girls, rather, we were referred to as gills.
These two characters "The Boys" never moved away from home. So, if we went to visit Grandma, I always had the displeasure of pocket knives being flashed and threatened to cut my eawrs off. " Even though I was little, I knew it was a travesty they were allowed to throw out the piano. I knew at seven, such men should not have such power.
My heart physically ached, but I knew better than to start crying. The death of the piano was greater than the loss of the family pet. How could they do that? How could they throw out a perfectly good piano?
Every Sunday visit, I slipped quietly to the corner. Like a recurring nightmare, I stared at the silent family picture and the bookshelf filled with books. With a great sadness held inside, life continued. Going to Grandma's was now a reminder of the loss. From that time on, I didn't like those uncles of mine at all. They had secured their place in my heart as "no good." All their threats to cut my earws off didn't bother me near as much as the piano they threw out.
I imagined the piano, lonely and afraid, sunk to the bottom of the river bed, surrounded by quicksand and crows. Growing up has everything to do with living in pain and accepting things you cannot change. I grew up the day they threw away my Grandmother's precious piano. The music did not die, they murdered it.
