Last time I promised to share the story about moving the piano. Before I forget — the story and to share it with you — imagine this:
The Piano movers who delivered my new piano have since retired so I asked the good people where I had purchased the piano, who they might recommend. There’s only one company up your way, they told me. Feeling only half confident about their recommendation, I made the call to book them. The gentleman on the phone seemed to either not be writing down the information or he couldn’t read his writing because he asked me to repeat it all to him again. Before hanging up I had confirmed the day of the piano move and the time, now it was simply waiting for the big day.
The day I had booked for the piano happened to be the day after the main move out of our house. I hadn’t wanted the house movers and the piano movers there on the same day, squeezed into the skinny driveway but also in one another’s way. The day before our house movers were to arrive, I receive a call from the piano mover. “Mrs what day did we have booked for your piano?” … okay, this is not sounding good. Turns out he needs to change the day for some reason to house-moving day. So I acquiesce and hope-like-heck he can have the piano loaded before the house movers arrive later the next morning. I get another call later that same evening from the piano mover. He sounds as though he could have been into the juice. He’s wondering if I can change moving day. What?! Seems he forgot he talked to me earlier. Alarm bells are going off like crazy and I tell my husband, “If that guy shows up tomorrow and I can smell even a whiff of booze on his breath, I’m running him off!” Needless to say I worried for hours after, losing much needed sleep.
Morning arrives, and to my surprise the piano moving truck is rolling in the driveway on time! One good sign. Oh but wait. After trying about three different times to back in with his trailer, a guy gets out and helps guide him back. Once someone got out of the truck I quit watching from the window and went about getting some last minute things done before they came to the door. Door bell rings. I open the door and there, all smiles, are three guys ready to move my precious grand piano. Not – one – of – them – was – under – 70 – years – old. That is not at all an exaggeration. 70 if they were a day!
I was so shocked I honestly didn’t know what to say or do. I made a point of getting close to the guy who I’d talked to on the phone. No telltale whiff of booze on his breath, thank goodness. But it was now woefully obvious the reason for those memory lapses when we talked on the phone — age. Pure and simple. And I’m no spring chicken either but I still have a way to go.
Anyway, I watched like a hawk as they struggled and struggled and struggled some more. I was simply glad no one had a heart attack. They eventually maneuvered my piano out of the house and loaded on the trailer, but there was damage. Somehow the piano was unscathed but there were gouges in the walls and deep scrapes in the stone and hardwood flooring. I felt so sorry for those old farts I didn’t have the heart to make them pay for damages — they must all be desperate if they have to move pianos at their age! So I fixed all the damage myself the following week.
Anyway, the piano was much more easily settled into the new house than it was removed from the old one. It was an experience and a good little story to share with friends.
“When you come to the end of your rope, tie a knot and hang on.” — Franklin D. Roosevelt