Post 28: Into My Grateful Hands

Mr. Jamison unfolded his white cane, got his bearings, and took the arm of the woman driver. Mama and I met them at the lower-level garage door to save them from having to navigate two sets of steps to our front door, only to have traverse another staircase back down to the basement.

“Hello. I’m Elizabeth. Thank you for coming on time.”

The black blind man extended his hand in the direction of Mama’s voice and introduced himself. “I’m Roger Jamison, and this is my wife, Melanie. As you can tell, no doubt, I depend on Melanie for transportation.”

The petite black woman extended her hand, smiled shyly and she and Mama shook. We all just stood there.

I was worrying how a blind man was going to be able to find and tighten and loosen all the strings in my piano, when Mr. Jamison spoke. “I don’t know if you were expecting a blind man, but I can assure you that my deficit is your gain. Because I’ve lost my sight, my sense of hearing is highly developed. I tune pianos for most of the churches around here, and several of the city’s best music teachers. I assure you, you’re in good hands.”

As my skepticism melted away, I walked up to Mr. Jamison and extended my hand. “I’m Drew Carter. Come see my piano.” I smiled, reached up, took his hand, and led him through the garage and into the inner sanctum of the basement. I could hardly wait for him to begin.

Mama told Mr. Jamison as much as we knew about the piano before him. Instinctively feeling his way across the front panels above the keyboard, Mr. Jamison reached inside and gently threw three small slide bolts that held the frontispiece of the upright to the case. Continuing to inspect the front of the sounding board, he smiled.

“I’m familiar with this piano. It was likely made between 1890 and 1905. It’s English, a Theelock. If you look just beyond where my hand is now, you should see the nameplate.”

Sure enough, the nameplate was precisely where he said it would be. Mama grinned at me and at Melanie and then back at me. “Mrs. Jamison, can I interest you in some iced tea?” And then to me, “Drew, let’s go upstairs and give Mr. Jamison room to work.”

“I want to stay,” I said, looking not at Mama, but at Mr. Jamison, forgetting that he was unable to see my plaintive face.

As he had promised, his acute sense of hearing must have picked up the intense disappointment in my voice, and he told Mama he’d be happy to have me stay and watch. “But, Drew, you’ll need to be extra quiet. I need to hear every string so I can bring them all into agreement. Understand?”

Happily I nodded yes, caught myself, and said aloud, “Yessir.” Mama and Mrs. Jamison disappeared upstairs. Mr. Jamison briefly explained what he would be doing, but after our preliminary exchange, I sat in silence. For the next two hours, I watched as he moved from pin to pin, starting with a slight turn, a tap of the associated key, and then a pause to evaluate the sound that resulted. He was deliberate and thorough. Occasionally he would point out the differences between keys that were flat and sharp, later quizzing me on which pitch variance I heard.

Key by key, he transformed the Theelock’s hollow, achy-sounding moans into warm and clear tones that were at my command to make music. After making the final adjustments, he deftly reassembled the case and lid, and returned his tools to his kit. Then, sliding to the center of the bench, he positioned himself at middle C and began to play. Mesmerized, I sat in rapt attention as his fingers found their landings and the Theelock responded like a show horse being put through its paces.

The beautiful sounds brought Mama and Mrs. Jamison quietly down the basement stairs, both respectful of our soloist. Mama and I exchanged excited looks. Neither of us was quite prepared for the transformation we were witnessing. When Mr. Jamison finished, satisfied with his work, he asked if I would play something. Nervous and excited, I slid onto the bench and settled myself at middle C, just as I had seen him do. Then, with a confidence I had never found on a playing field in any sport, I coaxed a respectable rendition of “Mary Had a Little Lamb” out of that grand old instrument.

When I finished, I turned around to a peppering of enthusiastic applause. Mama looked proud. For the first time since the piano had become part of our family conversation, it seemed that Mama’s skepticism had melted.

Mama paid Mr. Jamison and thanked him for his work. He would return to tune the Theelock a total of nine more times over the next ten years, each time restoring its voice and readying it, once again, for my grateful hands.