Main Street Melody

The White Piano With that, “Red” walked the five stairs to the right off-wing of the stage, turned on a few general stage lights, and commenced to raise the magnificent curtain, which he called the “act curtain.” As Julia and Robert stood in the orchestra pit area in front of the stage, “Red” methodically raised the crimson velvet curtain. As Mr. Stanley would later describe, the opera house practice of “drawing the curtain” must be accomplished so that the entire horizontal length of the curtain is raised with a single drawline. As the curtain rose to mid-height, a single spotlight from high above the stage illuminated one striking, if not startling, piece of furniture positioned at up-stage center. Robert stood almost motionless as his eyes beheld a WHITE baby grand piano. With the singular light from above, Robert and Julia drank in the delicate grandeur of the white baby grand piano. Exquisite in its craftsmanship without a hint of a scratch or blemish, the eggshell finish glowed brightly, accented by tasteful brass accents. His piano teacher, Dr. Vasileios Treonderdaris, often filled his young protégé’s imagination with stories of the legendary white piano that remained silent in the ancient opera house. Treonderdaris would close his eyes, using words to describe the shimmering sounds of the white piano of the opera house. He recalled some of the great pianists of yesteryear who traveled to Wallingford to sit on the venustas stool, designed by Renzo and Matteo to arouse the emotion of love, perfectly complimenting the white piano, this divine instrument of heaven’s breath and musical munificence. He spoke their names in turn like the Christmas poem, calling out every reindeer, … Ferde Grofe, Vincent Youmans Toy Bargy, and Harry Perella. Dr. Treonderdaris often said at the end of one of Robert’s lessons, “To sit at the white piano on the opera house’s stage is to recondite the place in heaven God keeps for great pianists. Since Robert began learning the rudiments, nuances, and finer piano techniques from Dr. Treonderaris, he daydreamed about the white piano. Occasionally, at the dinner table or in a quiet moment at home with his parents, he would ask whether Dr. Treonderdaris was filling his head with silly piano fantasies with stories about the white piano at the opera house. Robert’s mother, who took great care in finding the best piano teacher for her son when he was only seven years old, assured her offspring that the “maestro” was not cotton to fantasy or fiction. His mother suggested Robert believe all that Treonderdaris taught and shared with him as the maestro’s seriousness of purpose would make it implausible that the “maestro” would make up a fable or embellish on musical folklore. Over ten years as a piano student of Dr. Treonderdaris, Robert was convinced, beyond any doubt, that the legend of the white piano was as real as rain. As the couple approached the white piano with “Red” continuing his running diatribe of the history of every floorboard and fixture of the stage, Robert was lost in the awe and charm of finally seeing the legendary white piano. Still, something was wrong, terribly absent from his first sight of the venerable white piano. Julia holding Robert’s right arm with both hands, confirmed, “Bobbee, look, it’s a white piano, a white baby grand piano. I never saw a white piano before. Have you?” Robert shook his head as if in disbelief, enjoining, “No, no … I never have, but wait, … there is something wrong here”. Mr. Stanley looked critically at Robert, “Listen, son, this is the only white piano here. What do you think is wrong here”? Sarcastically adding, “Did I forget to put out the candelabra for you”? Befuddled yet wholly respectful, Robert lamented, “Mr. Stanley, I have heard about this white piano since I was a very young boy, learning to play the piano from my piano teacher, and he told me stories that included the presence of a fancy piano stool. “Red,” let out a hearty chuckle, “Well, son, your piano instructor knows his stuff. Veritably accurate, there has been a “piano stool” that has accompanied this white piano since it first was moved into the opera house over a hundred years ago. It is a cherished piece of all that is the white piano, and we keep it wrapped and boxed for special occasions or for super special pianists who are invited to sit before this grand old lady of pianos … our white piano”. Robert queried further, “So, the stories about that circular stool are real”? “You betcha, son,” continued “Red” … “By God, the pianists who sat on that seat. The stories that that old stool could tell would fill volumes of keyboarding history”. Julia, wishing to insert herself into the conversation, “So, Mr. Stanley, what makes that piano stool so important? Why not have a piano bench like the one placed here now? Isn’t it more comfortable for pianists to sit on an adjustable, leather-seated bench?” “Young lady,” thoughtfully answering Julia’s question, “I hope you see the stool someday and realize how it kinda harmonizes with this white piano. It fits like the “perfect kiss” between lovers.” Julia turned to her Bobbee, with a new love light in her oval hazel eyes at the mere mention of a “perfect kiss.” Such is the inexhaustible appetite of teenage love. Where Julia had no prior interest in sports, she now wanted to attend the high school basketball games because he was there … on the team … on the floor. If Bobbee was on the court, she felt compelled to watch him. Suffice it to say, if there was a piece of Bobbee somewhere, anywhere, she was obliged by some undefined inner drive to immerse herself in yet one more component of he who is Bobbee. This was all part of the stirrings within her that Julia’s grandmother, Denise, lovingly predicted might happen in this thing, … this overwhelming song within her heart … called love.