These rectangular boxes, which I happened upon at a jumble sale today, were a commonplace of my childhood. In the cellar at the Pink Palace, Albany, NY, my father had an ancient upright player piano which he paid to have restored at no small expense. He was delighted by the device that, when you pumped its pedals, played old time songs on rolls at immense volume. On it I learned both the clean and saucy lyrics to Rose of Washington Square, the latter being risqué for 1919. The piano was the star of the show for parties too numerous to mention at the Pink Palace. When he bought it, it was a gleaming mahogany, burnished by years of love and expensive polish. When he painted it a curious shade of orange red, I asked why. “I like red,” was his immediate answer. My exposure to the player piano had a knock-on effect years later when I brought my daughter Mary, then seven, in for singing lessons when we lived in Connecticut.
© 2024 John Oliver
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