I want to get rid of our Victorian-Era upright piano.
I asked the antique shop guy who sold it to us if he’d take it. He hemmed and hawed and told some story about the piano guy working out of state. or something.
One thrift shop doesn’t take pianos.
Another thrift shop* would take it, but she has limited moving capacity. My house would not be an easy house for amateur movers.
There’s a friend of a friend lead I could check out.
I could do Craigslist, but I don’t want strangers coming around.
I was thinking that maybe I’d hire movers to take it to the one thrift store.
I could check with the local arts center to see if they could use an imperfect but serviceable piano.
I think of such ideas and then move on. The piano isn’t the most important thing on my list.
The other day a friend and I, walking out of breakfast, passed the antique guy on the street, and he inquired about the piano. Hey, and here I thought he was blowing me off! The fire department is on his case, so he’s loathe to bring in such a big piece. He’ll call (or run into me) if something opens up.
So it’s all simmering. At some point, something will pop to the surface. Like a little piece of gnocchi.
*This thrift shop was the site of the saddest donation. In the course of talking to her, I had to explain that husband died. We walked over to my trunk and it was filled with tools. “Are you sure?” she asked. I told her that I don’t know what to do with all this stuff, and it would make me happy if her organization could use them and make money off of them. As we finished bringing things inside, she asked once more, “But maybe you’ll want these someday.” “Please,” I replied, thrusting an $80 (or maybe $150?) jigsaw (or maybe it was a drill?) into her arms, “please, take it. Take it all.”