Sitting on the table in my foyer is a china pianist.
She’s only about six inches tall, and has no identifying features, other than a sticker on the bottom labeled “Japan.” Her candelabra is a bit the worse for the wear, having been broken off when the kids were playing a bit too raucously and then re-glued. If you wind her up, she plays “Humoresque.”
But, as is often the case, it’s “the rest of the story” that makes her so interesting.
When I was a teenager, the local Hallmark store asked if I would play piano during an open house they were having.
I remember arriving and having a seat at a little electronic keyboard. I likely had in tow my big Reader’s Digest songbooks, and I played the old standards for a couple of hours. When I finished, the store manager presented me with the china pianist in appreciation for my efforts.
She now watches over all my practice sessions and all the piano students who come in and out the front door — a reminder of my beginnings. The years pass, but she continues to play and never seems to age; her lips always sweetly pursed, her eyes bright, her ponytail neatly tied with a bow.
I hope her melody continues for years to come.