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We didn't know how old she was, this grand dame. She would probably have started her professional life in the late 1800s, born on King Street in Toronto. She was sturdy and had seen many changes.
She must have first worked with a local family. Only well-off people could afford the luxury of a home piano of such quality. Her sound board was solid wood; her keys were ivory. The case was indeterminate but it was certainly a hardwood. Her joints were glued, screwed and sometimes dovetailed.
Aunt Jane sometimes lived with the family and she was the recognized household music expert. All the children sat with her for practice and of course piano playing was common as an evening entertainment, at a time before video streaming, the Internet, television or even radio.
The piano was brought to Vancouver when some of the family moved west and again she occupied a prized place in the house.
Her surname was Nordheimer but we called her "Norrie," which sounds much softer and fits well with the countless happy hours she gave those who lived in her home.
But she was passed on to a family of four boys and they all aspired to playing hockey, then football – not the piano. That was for girls. So Norrie was left alone in a living room and eventually moved to a basement.
She was seldom played and had a mountain of belongings stacked upon her. Did she silently play laments or minor key tunes in sorrowful ode to her more famous days?
Ignominy almost befell her when the family who had acquired her in the 1980s decided to move without her. They slipped away, stealthily, leaving her alone to awake in an otherwise empty house.
The new house owner was not musically inclined and saw her as an unwelcome interloper. Adopting a nasty and nasal tone, Norrie had to go by 2 p.m. or he would have her put down. And so it was that we came to know her; if we paid the delivery and removal fee, we could have her. No charge for her magnificence at all, just for her removal.
She had a sprained note, somewhere around low-G, but it proved to be a wedge of dirt. After that was removed, she sounded very mellow, if slightly out of tune. She was amazing, given that no tuner had ventured near her in over two decades.
In her new home, there were children and a piano teacher. She was played not frequently, but at least with love and appreciation.
In time, her owner also had to move and there was no room for Norrie. Despite advertisements for a free piano, she was not welcomed.
We tried offering to pay for her peaceful transportation but to no avail. Friends reminded us, sotto voce, about the CBC Radio program which told how nobody wanted old pianos any more.
We left the room when we mentioned this, not wishing to alarm her unduly.
With sorrow in our hearts and ears, we eventually called the piano remover.
He came and he muttered in staccato. He shook his head. He couldn't do it. Was it compassion or was he just not strong enough muscle out her stubborn old frame?
We called another piano exterminator and he said he would be there at 4 p.m.
Her disposal fee would run to $600, the price of a reasonable-quality electronic keyboard.
I arrived shortly before that time and sat on the only other piece of furniture, an unstable three-legged stool, and played Bach on her keys.
My playing is elementary but she rose to the occasion, sensing that it was her last, her swan-song.
She sounded beautiful. Her tone had mellowed even more with the century. She was carrying me, saying that it was all right; it wasn't my fault.
The exterminator called to reconfirm that we were ready. It was time.
Then suddenly another call came.
Was that piano still available? It was, if the caller could arrive immediately.
We put the executioner on hold and in waltzed three strong men. Norrie was not yet safe, however. The three fellows found that they could shift her only inches, and not at all up the flight of stairs.
Her freedom lay a mere 15 feet away, but it could have been a thousand miles, one for each of her pound weight.
The one who intended to dispose of her slyly called again. Did we need him maybe after all? It seemed that way, but wait! A local body builder was known to us. Would he help? He arrived fortissimo, and the other three grinned, their teeth as wide as 88 keys. Each leg on this giant was a tree trunk.
The team of four lifted and hauled Norrie away legato style, swaddled snugly in protective wrap and blankets.
We were sad to see her go, but we knew that she had been granted a new life.
Norrie's new owner called to thank us for letting him have her. He had saved us the disposal fee but our real joy is that he wants Norrie as a piano for his children.
He had saved her.
Bill Galloway lives in Vancouver.