The poor old girl is beyond repair, but her ivory keys could tell some tales, I'm sure.

We acquired this pre-Civil War era Pleyel, as we were making our move to our 

Rose Water Cottage.

We had hoped to one day have her restored.

Xavier and Sophia have enjoyed pecking at the keys, 

but they are so sadly out of tune, and some lay silent, strike after strike...

She reminds me, though, how fortunate I am to have grown up in a household 

where music was appreciated.

A Steinway grand piano made its way to our home, after a long search in the classified ads of the local newspaper.

My sister was on a path. She wanted to be a concert pianist.

She practiced and practiced and practiced. 

She was amazing.

(she's amazing, still)

 She

 could play Gershwin and Bach and Chopin, along with all the old hymns…

...and the top 40's.

My dad could play by ear, and his legs would dance as his hands romped across the keyboard…

..all those old tunes he knew as a boy, growing up on a farm, in Kentucky.

My brothers, one on the guitar and one on the trumpet, and I with my flute, 

would collaborate with sister, 

who could transpose anything…

and we'd give performances in the living room,

 with our parents as the audience, seated on the sofa.

One Christmas, it was our rendition of O Holy Night that brought them to tears.

We didn't understand. 

Now we do.

I sat in my chair, Sunday Morning, sipping my coffee, 

I can still hear the music.

Grateful.

Blessings, friends.