We love it. We have piled all the things of the kitchen on it, an altar of sorts: a pussy willow branch in a tall glass, a wine bottle sprouting a fern, a brandy bottle trying to sprout a turnip, three small candles, the New York Times from the last two weeks, aprons, a thank you note written on an apple carton, and, incidentally, piano books. It all began one autumn afternoon when the leaves had just begun to turn, before the recycling truck ran over our maple tree (a sad story for another time) with a visit from Allison Lentini ('83, oh, we must include the ubiquitous number!) and her daughter Natalia. She writes in the housebook that her husband, a piano tuner, has found a used piano for 2-D, free, and in Pennington (fifteen minutes away), and all that is needed is a moving crew. It took a while for the notion to sink in (it always takes a while). A piano for 2-D. Pennington. A friend with a truck? We consult a professional piano mover who told us this particular model would weigh almost a ton. (Whoa. Nix on the Toyota.) U-Haul! So we organized ourselves. I called the current owners, the Whitmers. They are both music teachers, violin and cello as I remember, and needed a piano that had 'perfect' pitch and told them that we would be by on Friday evening the weekend just before Fall break. I called U-haul in Trenton and arranged to pick up their smallest truck.
Pete Schwartz and I drive to the U-haul just before four on Saturday. We intend to pick up the truck, pick up our crew of eager movers (right) at 2-D, pick up the piano and be back by seven when they close. Was this unrealistic? Pennington. Fifteen minutes away. Also, remember, this is just before a week of exams, so none of us have any time to spare. We arrive. In a flurry of pink and yellow paper, Mike informs us there is no truck. Did you know that when these truck rental agencies say reservation they mean: "if you show up and we have a truck you'll be first in line to have it"? While we stand there looking frustrated, Mike does his best. There is a truck in Mercerville, just ten minutes away if you know where you're going. Of course we don't. We arrive at a gas station behind a mini-mart and pick up the truck from a guy who told us that it should run 'pretty well.' Looking at each other in disbelief, Pete and I say what the hell. Pennington. Fifteen minutes away. Clanking and rattling in our diesel stick-shift we crawl back to 2-D. We were late. Luckily, Hal, Pete Rowinsky, Mike McCabe, and Craig were still around. There was no room in the U-haul for all of us, so they sat in the hull. We told them to be sure to bang if they started feeling woozy. Half-way down Elm Rd, Pete and I hear a banging from the back. We pull off onto a suburban side-road. The door had flown open. No problem. We stop, let them breath, play in the leaves, latch them back in, and we're off. We're off. Sputter. Sputter. And the engine dies.
Pete tries again. I lend moral support. We all get out. We push the truck past a few Princeton manors as Pete turns the engine over. Smoke rises from the hood. We curse. The two physicists and the computer science guy from Alaska start throwing around the big terms: carborator, coolant, spark plugs. The two anthropologists and the philosopher run off to roll in the leaves (while analyzing this disciplinary schism, of course). The unthreatening female of the group and the one with the emergency 1-800 number in my pocket, am elected to knock on doors while the heated discussion continues. I speak to Mike, who commiserates, but tells me I'll have to call another number for a mechanic. When I return, the truck is running again. I clamber in and we're off.
Five minutes later, after we made the next turn onto Rosedale, the engine dies again. We are half-way there. It is almost dark. I find another dinner to barge in on and call the mechanic. He'll be by in 45 minutes he tells me. So we huddle by the truck, parking lights blaring red. We all cram inside the cab. We complain. We have an impromptu house meeting and complain some more. We meet a man who stops off and gives us a flashlight and three flares which Pete sets off immediately and all at once. We wait. At eight, more than two hours later, the mechanic arrives. He has no tools. He looks at our engine, tries to restart it and tells us he'll tow it back to Trenton for us. Gee, thanks. We get a ride back to Princeton from one of the members of the dinner party which was just breaking up. The group returns to 2-D discouraged.
The next morning I call Mike. He must work there all weekend. He tells me they have another truck available Sunday afternoon. A new one, he promises and they'll give it to us discounted. There is some trouble rousing the troops. Ginger and Billy join in. To make a long story short, in the new truck, we make it to Pennington, retrieve the piano with minimal damage to the Whitmers home. Pete Schwartz and Craig got to practice their OA knots tying the piano back to the back of the truck and we all returned to 2-D in a blaze of glory for a rousing version of 'Piano Man.'
So, now here it sits. Many thanks to Paul Lentini who came to tune it (to the degree it could be tuned) after the fateful move, and to Allison and Natalia for the note, the Whitmers for being patient, and to Mike who did his best for us, but still charged us $46 (his boss, you know). It is played almost every night without fail, especially by Eddie, our resident roving musician and gives our new dining space a more settled look. Please stop by and play or listen. It will be there forever. I'm not moving it again.