Thank You For The Music

I didn’t think it would hit me this hard. 

I haven’t sat down and played it for decades. But earlier this week, I gave my dad the green light to part with it. I just didn’t think the process would happen so quickly.

When I was around 9-years-old, I started taking piano lessons. I don’t remember what initiated this other than my mom wanting me to do it. I was happy to start this adventure as I already had a deep love of music early on. 

My parents were cautious. It is one thing to start lessons and pay the $12 a week for instruction but it is another to invest hundreds of dollars into an instrument, as big as a piece of furniture, which could end up gathering dust in the corner once the novelty of the lessons wore off. 

I started off with an electric organ. It had about half of the keys of a piano but to start it got the job done. Eventually though, as my lessons progressed, my piano teacher told my mom it was time to upgrade or I couldn’t advance.

My parents didn’t have a lot of spare cash at the time and the expense of a new piano was not in the budget. My mom has always had a frugal nature and so she immediately started looking into other options. She saw an ad in the paper for an auction at a home in North Versailles and a piano was on the docket. Upon arriving at the event, she learned that the 100 year old piano had been used in the home for teaching private lessons.

She had never been to an auction before and probably could have gotten the piano for a cheaper price had she not been paddle happy but with a pound of the gavel, “Sold” to the lady in the back for $300 - a price my grandmother offered to pay. 

I vaguely remember the piano arriving. It was on wheels but still a challenge to maneuver this heavy box into our game room - a room it would occupy for nearly 40 years. Not long after the piano arrived, a tuner came to our house to get the century year old instrument in tip top shape. This past week when my father began taking the piano apart, we found the tuner’s name and date written behind the upper panel - February 1, 1984.

I took lessons through my freshman year of high school. Once I set my sights on participating in marching band, I moved to the clarinet. It was an easy transition due to my piano experience. (With the piano, your hands are doing two different things. On the clarinet, your hands are working together.) But the piano remained, and, from time to time, I would get my old lesson books out and play. 

Even if you are not a musician, a piano is a nice compliment to any home. Even though no one was playing mine on a regular basis, it was a wonderful compliment to “Grammy and Pappy’s” and, over the years, each grandkid had their chance to tickle the ivories. A couple non-published works were composed by a few of the kids even though there were a few keys missing and the instrument was badly out of tune.

This past October, my parents ordered new carpeting and furniture for their game room. My piano was moved into the garage in order for the work to be completed. It never found its way back. 

Looking at it the other day, taking up so much space that my parents are unable to put their car in the garage, I knew it was time to say goodbye. A large investment of time and money would be needed to return this piano to play-worthy condition - more money than was spent on purchasing it 36 years ago. Surprisingly, when I brought the subject up to my mother, there was no push back. She knew it was time too. 

A few years back, a neighbor generously gifted my family her piano when she moved to California. Because of that, I knew I couldn’t attempt to make room for my ol’ upright.  I looked up ways to repurpose a piano but the outdoor fountain/ garden/ wine bar was out of our wheelhouse. I had to let it go. In the shape the instrument is in and because of its age, I knew no local agency would take it as a donation either. 

My dad who loves to tinker in his garage and was waiting years to say goodbye to the piano wasted no time taking it apart. Yes, for me, this has been very sad and I cried seeing it in pieces the other day but I know it is what needed to be done. The ol’ gal gave us her best and for the sound of music that emanated from her hammers and strings, I’ll always be grateful.

“Life is like a piano, the white keys are happy days, and the black keys are sad ones. Just remember that you need both to make music.” 

- anonymous

Finisher 2020

It is an impressive piece of hardware.

Not just because you could probably knock someone out with it but to me, the most striking part is what it says -

Finisher 2020

During the summer, my husband enrolled in the virtual Richard S. Caliguiri City of Pittsburgh Great Race. I almost forgot I was part of the original plan to participate in the event. The idea came to us after my uncle passed away back on January 1. I wanted to honor his memory by competing in the Great Race as he did some 30 years ago. 

There was a photo on my grandparents’ television of my uncle crossing the finish line. I was always so proud of this photo and, as a kid, I would look at it in awe. That photo remains etched in my mind now that I completely comprehend how much preparation it took for him to be ready for the 6.21 miles. 

To be honest, I knew I had a lot of work to do to get ready for an event of this magnitude. My longest run had only been a 5k and that took everything I could give. But when you make a plan in January for something that would take place eight months later, you figure you have plenty of time to prepare.

No one knew what would happen just three months after the ball dropped on 2019. 

When I look back on our original Great Race plan it seems like decades ago. I had completely planned on getting myself in running shape and proudly crossing the finish line wearing a tee shirt showcasing the bib number from my uncle’s race. 

So as with most things that were planned for 2020 - the Great Race became a virtual event. That sealed the deal for me in terms of participation. I didn’t want to honor my uncle virtually. It was back in May when organizers decided to make it a more pandemic friendly event and by that time, I had already made the switch to cycling. (My family and I started taking frequent bike rides to pass the time when we were in lockdown.)

My husband decided to still go through with the race. I was proud of him for entering his 10K time of 50 minutes and 14 seconds which he earned running around the former Eastland Mall site. Once he submitted his information, he was mailed the typical race swag - event t-shirt and medal. 

Again, the medal is an impressive piece of hardware, with the event name and date on it framed by the city skyline and autumn leaves. But I particularly like the way the word “finisher” and the year “2020” come together in the left-hand corner. Looking at the medal, really examining it, I thought we all deserve a medal for getting through this year. God knows it wasn’t easy. 

These past 360 days seem more like 1,080 days and even looking back to this past January seems like a completely different year. We’ve all had obstacles and disappointments to overcome but we’ve made it. We all deserve a pat on the back and definitely a medal!

Yes, I realize that moving from December 31, 2020 to January 1, 2021 won’t make a big difference. There is no magic fairy that is coming down to “poof” all the bad away, but putting the past 365 days in the rear-view mirror and looking ahead to a fresh clean slate does add a little spring to my step. 

There are so many things to look forward to in the year ahead - covid-19 cases decreasing, restrictions being lifted, socially UN-distant family gatherings, please add your wishes and desires to the list. 

I would like to thank each of you for being a part of my 2020 therapy. Writing these blogs and often getting feedback has been one of my comforts during these past 12 months. I hope we continue to stick together through the upcoming year ahead. I wish everyone a hopeful and healthy 2021.

Flippin' Crazy

It all happened so fast. 

In the blink of an eye I was laying face down in the snow thinking one thought and one thought only.

I'm dead. I'm dead. I've died. I'm dead. 

Ok. That sounds a bit weird to be thinking of a line from the movie Finding Nemo (the scene when Dory and Marlin think they have been eaten by the anglerfish) right after you've heard every bone in your neck crack, but that is where I was at.

Let’s rewind. The other day, I decided to take my kids sled riding where I used to go as a child. After we received eight inches of snow and our superintendent declared a snow day, I felt like I didn’t have a choice. The fates were pushing me in the direction of fun. 

We have been very fortunate to have a small hill in our backyard that has provided an avenue for sledding for the past 16 years. Our neighbors have been gracious enough to let my kiddos ride the powder highway into their yard for almost two decades. While that is nice to have, it is also nice to take it to another thrill level and that was my mission.

There is a large hill, a.k.a. “The Mound”, in McKeesport. It not only was the best place for winter recreation but in the summer, it was a great place to watch the July 4th fireworks. It was close enough to our house that my brother and I could walk there if we had to, probably a ten minute trek, armed with sleds and a dream.

There was a little dip at the bottom of the hill that if you hit it with enough speed your sled would go flying into the road so it was important to always have a spotter in case a car would come by. I called the dip the “backbreaker”. 

I had taken my kids to The Mound before but it has been a while since we’ve had a significant snow. I could only entice two of the three kids to go but nonetheless we packed up our sleds in the van and made the 7 minute drive. 

Once there, the kids and I hiked to the top of the hill. I forgot how hard it was to trudge uphill through ten inches of snow. I was surprised to see there weren’t many sled tracks visible. Usually, The Mound is a pretty popular place for kids to go. But this just meant my kids would have to go down a few times before really getting the full speed effect. 

My youngest was frustrated by this and using his saucer sled made things a bit more difficult. (You have very little steering ability with these types of sleds.) So I had to keep providing encouragement. My daughter though, was having the time of her life on her orange toboggan type sled - speeding down the hill. 

At first, I was just an observer and car spotter, but my daughter’s enthusiasm was contagious. I wanted to try too! So I made a couple runs down the hill, channeling my inner kiddo -yelling all the way down. I guess I got carried away and decided to give the saucer a go as well. 

At this point my son had made a good path and I followed it for the most part.  I did veer to the left in an uncharted section of snow which stopped me in my tracks. I started to walk back up the hill and my daughter decided to go warm up in the car. I told my son three more runs and we would go home. 

He was now using the orange sled which was way better for this type of snow and I was demoted to the blue saucer. My next run was the fateful venture that resulted in the saucer spinning around and, as I was traveling backwards down the hill,  pretty fast I might add - I hit something that booted me from the saucer and propelled my legs to go completely over the top of my head. 

My son watched the whole thing in amazement and was totally unaware of the potential for serious injury. He exclaimed, “Wow, Mom you completely flipped!” 

As I got up, somewhat in shock, I realized if I could walk and move my head things must be ok. I also told myself if I had broken something I would be in pain. I told my youngest to wrap it up. It was time to go home. 

It has been a few days since the sledding incident and I am happy to report I am ok. I am still a little sore but I think my shoulder area bore the brunt of the flip which is probably why I am not writing this in a full head/neck harness. 

My take away?  I am not sure. I mean I don’t want to think I am too old to go sled riding but maybe I’m too old to go sled riding? Although next time, I could pad it up like the Steelers do before they take the field. I can get some nice shoulder pads and a padded helmet and make a real statement when I hit the slopes in the ‘Port.

Who knows? But for now the only saucer I’ll be coming in contact with is the one that goes underneath my coffee cup. 

Merry Christmas everyone! 

 

St. Nick Reboot

Now that we have jumped head first into the Christmas season, there is a lot of talk about Santa Claus' alias - St. Nick. Growing up Byzantine Catholic, looking at ornate icons of the saints during liturgy each Sunday, I could never quite understand how the man we know as Santa evolved from St. Nick but as long as there were presents involved, who was I to question it.

St. Nicholas Day (December 6) was celebrated each year when I was little by putting our shoes by the door the night before in hopes of receiving small treats and money. There was nothing extravagant about St. Nick Day but I remember fondly the chocolates, coins and sometimes dollar bills that would be waiting in the morning. (Tradition has it that St. Nicholas once secretly threw bags of dowry money into the window of a poor family to save the daughters from being sold into slavery which morphed into the shoe custom of today.)

As a young girl I attended a Catholic school in McKeesport which was named for St. Nicholas. December 6 was celebrated first by going to liturgy, then special lunch in the cafeteria with a visit by the saint himself. I am not sure who had the honor of dressing up in the bishop's vestments (appropriate for Nicholas who during his lifetime served as a bishop in a town in Turkey) but once he arrived we would stand and sing the Hymn to St. Nicholas in both English and Church Slavonic. 

I was a painfully shy child and I did not like it very much when I was called to "perform" in front of people. Once I began piano lessons, I became the reluctant Liberace whenever someone came to visit. "Kris, play that new one you just learned. You know that one I like with the da-da-da and bab-bab-baaa." Yes, my parents were proud just to hear me play but I was so nervous I could hardly read the notes. I tried to get through as quickly as possible so I could be done. 

One day when I was six we went to visit my grandpap Nick in the nursing home and I was once again called to perform. This time I was asked to sing the Church Slavonic version of the St. Nick hymn. Obviously, I did not want to do this. I could muster my way ok enough through the English but seriously, another language? Plus, my grandfather was suffering with Alzheimer's disease and did not recognize anyone in the room that day. Not my mom, not his wife and certainly not me. 'So why did I have to sing,' I thought?

I did not want to disappoint my mom even though I was troubled by selfish thoughts. It did not occur to me at the time how painful it must have been for her to be there with her father who was not present - or so I thought. 

I began singing and after the first few words, I had accompaniment. My grandfather joined me without missing a beat. He did not remember his family but he remembered the words to a song he probably sang countless times on his name saint's feast day. As you can imagine the tears flowed freely from the eyes of my mother and her mother, once again catching a glimpse of the man they knew. 

At the tender age of six, I was not able to fully comprehend the moment and could only wonder why these ladies, who had asked me to sing in the first place, were now obviously upset. Six-year-olds do not know how to recognize tears of joy.

Now decades after that beautiful memory, I have my own Nicholas, named after his great-grandfather. He has a special meal each year on his feast day and even though he is in his twenties, he did engage with me this week when I asked him what he would like us to prepare. And yes, he and his brother put out their shoes last night.

At church on Sunday I will hear the words that gave my grandfather a voice in the silence of his disease. Centuries ago, St. Nicholas may have secretly brought gifts of money to the poor but in the 80's he gave my family the sweetest gift when two unlikely voices joined in his name, bringing joy to our world that Christmas season.

And Another One Gone

I'll meet you at the Kangaroo!

If you grew up in western Pennsylvania, you know exactly what I am talking about - the Kennywood ride, sandwiched between the Jack Rabbit and the Merry-go-Round, guarded by the nearby statue of George Washington.

The ride was perfect fun for people of all ages. It was basically one step up from a Kiddieland ride, a simple round track, but the steep hill and subsequent drop, took it to the next level. Plus, there was strategy involved. It was a good move to make sure you got in the car first to ensure you would be the squisher and not the squishy when gravity pushed bodies together.

My first memory of this ride goes back to grade school. I remember being in the car with my friends and we decided to yell out words we knew in different languages when we went off of the drop. Bonjour! Hola! Wienerschnitzel! There was laughter - lots of laughter and smiles plastered to our faces from the contagious giggles.

It was a pleasure, years later, to be able to share this ride with my children - a new generation of riders. This ride was critical for us because my kids do not like roller coasters. Rides like the Kangaroo, Auto Race and Noah’s Ark, plus of course an order of Potato Patch fries, helped them have the Kennywood experience without going upside down or out of their comfort zone to have fun.

The announcement that four classic rides: Kangaroo, Paratrooper, Bayern Kurve and Volcano, the ride formally known as the Enterprise, were getting the ax at “our” park was hard to take. The hits just keep coming in 2020. The rides disappearing are forever changing the landscape of a place that us “Yinzers” consider a second home. School picnics, Fall Fantasy parades, first dates - Kennywood has been a familiar environment that always channels your inner child no matter how old you are.

The list of casualties keeps growing and includes beloved gems like The Turnpike, Log Jammer, and Gold Rusher. I’m sure you are like me - you have crystal clear memories of these rides and the people who helped make them special.

I remember during the summer of ‘85 meeting my brother at the Bayern Kurve when “Something About You” by Level 42 would come on the PA system. I loved when the cars got up to maximum speed and the loud horn would go off. 

I remember being on a date, as a teenager, and being persuaded to ride the Enterprise for the first time - at night!  I really thought I would get sick but interestingly enough, sitting so close together, it didn’t feel like we were going upside down at all. It was the perfect way to cap off a day of fun at the park.

Things change. I get that. I accept that. But we didn’t even have a chance to say goodbye. Three years ago, when park officials announced the Log Jammer was going away, riders only had a weekend to pay their respects. Ride malfunctions and long lines prevented many people from getting their last ride experience.  Yinzers are a sentimental bunch. We are fiercely loyal to a fault. Disappointment does not go over well.

This latest announcement came after the 2020 season ended, a season different from any other with a delayed opening, due to covid-19, and restrictions that changed the way riders could experience the park. The aforementioned rides have already been removed from the Kennywood website.

I think after this year we have become numb to bad news. I can’t even put a positive spin on this - other than to be thankful for the amazing memories I have logged over the years. Kennywood has played such a pivotal role in my life and has made western PA a wonderful place to grow up.

I hope this latest round of cuts helps ensure the longevity of “our” park by providing space for the next best thrill rides. Maybe in years to come, fortysomethings like me, will look back nostalgically on rides like the Steel Curtain or Cranky’s Drop Tower.

But until then, we can still meet at the Potato Patch. We can drown our grief in a large order of cheesy fries. Who’s with me?

Angels Among Us

Isn't it amazing how the older you get the more nostalgic you become?

I have always been a sentimental type but it seems like once I hit my 40s, my nostalgia went into high gear. But this past week, everything came rushing to the surface when a very prominent person from my childhood passed away.

Growing up in McKeesport we had the best neighbors. Our babysitter lived directly across the street. The town candy maker lived right next door and a family, just like ours, lived in a home a few doors down. They had three kids, just like us, in the same order: girl-boy-girl, all around the same age. The dad was a Vietnam vet, just like my dad, and the mom, well...Barb was a God-fearing woman just like my mom.

It came to pass that our families would become real close and the kids all grew up together. Their house was our safe house - in case my brother and I would come home from school and mom wasn't home yet, we were told to go across the street. There was one time I came home from school and my front door was closed.

I assumed no one was there, so I happily skipped down the street. About an hour later, after I had already changed out of my uniform and made myself at home, my mom came to the door, with my baby sister, and frantically told Barb I hadn't come home yet. Seconds later, I appeared in the living room, disappointed to see my mom knowing it was time to go home yet wondering why she was so upset.

I have lots of great memories growing up with what seemed like a "second" family - birthday parties, sleepovers, playing together in the summertime. Barb was only a phone call away and the two moms were able to lean on each other throughout life's ups and downs. And yes, there were plenty of those. Including the time, after my grandfather had just died, that a pep talk from Barb was just what my mom needed to help her get through the loss of her father while continuing to meet the needs of her young family.

It seems a bit ironic that we would find ourselves needing a pep talk of our own as we were saying our goodbyes to Barb nearly 30 years, to the day, after my grandfather passed away.

As the children got older, our families drifted apart. The kids started lives of their own. The closeness that was once there was not the same, but the memories never lost their allure. It was a treat when unexpectedly I would run into my oldest child counterpart and of course the reminiscing would begin - the games we played, the laughs we shared - they would all come flooding back. The benefits of social media allowed us kids to at least keep track of what everyone was up to.

I remember finding out over the summer that Barb was sick. I reached out immediately to try and find out what was going on. The treatment would be aggressive, but doctors were hopeful about her prognosis. Her health took a turn a few weekends ago. Last Wednesday, I received a text stating Barb's suffering was over.

Going to the funeral home was hard. Looking at her peaceful face, I could tell things had not been easy for her. I knelt there waiting, hoping for that warm, Italian smile that lit up a room. The smile that made you feel special and welcomed all at the same time. The memories came into focus as photographs told the story of years well lived.

Hearing my friend cry, overcome with grief at the loss of her mother, my heart broke. I was not prepared for the raw emotion I both witnessed and expressed. I realized how much Barb had meant to me and how much I was touched by her faithful, loving, humorous nature. We shared a lot of laughs over the years and for that I will always be grateful.

Speaking to one of Barb’s granddaughters at the funeral home, I had a familiar feeling. There I was speaking to someone I had never had a conversation with, yet I felt like I had known her all of my life. I felt special and welcomed all at the same time.

Barb hasn’t travelled far. She will live on in a vibrant way through the ones she left behind. For those of us lucky enough to have known her personally, we know sometimes angels dwell among us.

There Is No Place Like...

Home. 

Even when "home" has changed considerably over the years. 

I am not talking about my home now. I am talking about my childhood home. I am fortunate to still be able to visit the place where I grew up and spend time with my parents. But that place is almost unrecognizable from when I was living there. 

It seems like once my siblings and I moved out - the home improvement projects began. It first started with a new kitchen, then a new bathroom. Last year, they added new living room furniture. Last week, they got new carpeting in the basement and now the dining room is about to get a makeover. 

Now don't get me wrong. This hasn't been an overnight endeavor by any stretch of the imagination. There has been a lot of improvement but the projects have taken place over the span of let's say 17 years. 

The work that started this week will cover  the wallpaper that has been in the dining room since I was less than double digits. It makes me sad to see it go because I really was attached to it. The wallpaper was part of the fabric of our home and that final element of what existed from my childhood will soon be but a memory.. 

Maybe you think I am too sentimental. I didn't even say anything to my parents, when they told me their plan, that would indicate any sadness on my part. I am happy for them. They deserve an upgrade that is 35 years overdue. I look around my own home and see so many things I would like to improve on but when you are knee deep in paying for college, dance lessons, sports sign-ups, your HGTV dreams are often put on the backburner. My parents have earned this privilege after raising three kids.

I actually remember when my parents’ dining room wallpaper was put up many, many years ago. My dad’s younger brother, who was quite handy, did the work himself. I can picture him kneeling on the floor smoothing out the wrinkles as his radio provided, what is now considered classic rock, motivation. 

It was a treat for us kids to have our uncle there, on and off, for a few days to get the job done. It makes me sad, now that he is gone, that his project will be covered with paint but I guess it is comforting to know it won’t be ripped off of the walls. 

My mom mentioned the different coloring of the wallpaper once she took the decorations off of the wall. With the dining room being right next to the kitchen, there was bound to be some weathering underneath shelves and hung pictures over the years - as I said - more than 30 years. I know that once the work is done, she will add her special touch, arranging her country knickknacks to create the warm ambience that helps make their house a home.

There are a few things that remain at my house from when I was growing up. The reddish/orange carpeting is still intact in my former bedroom - the carpeting that I accidentally caught on fire when I was burning love letters after a break up. (It was only a very small section and my parents remain in the dark about this.) 

Two corner china cabinets are still in the dining room that were special buys, including a thrift store purchase I was a part of, and so does the antique piano my mom bought at an auction when my piano teacher said my little plug in organ with 20 keys wouldn’t cut it anymore if I wanted to continue. 

But while I am a little sad about the "improvements", I am happy that the most important part of the house hasn’t changed in 46 years - both of my parents still live there. The moment I walk through the front door it feels like “home” and it doesn’t matter what is on the walls or what furniture I sit on. I know there will be something good to eat in the kitchen, my dad will be in the gameroom watching MASH and mom will come down the hallway with treasurers, for someone in my family, she found during her thrift store excursions. 

So when Dorothy said, ”There is no place like home,” she was absolutely right. Even though Auntie Em and Uncle Henry probably made some improvements while she was in the Emerald City - it was the feeling she missed most of all. And that feeling is something Home Depot and Lowe's haven’t quite figured out how to sell.