The key to moving a piano is having someone else do it
It was my first major purchase, the Steinway upright piano I bought shortly after starting my first real job in television. The piano was eight years old then, its harp and keys broken in by an Ohio man who had played it for hours every day and who was trading up to a baby grand.
That piano has followed me around, from that first townhouse in Ohio where I played it most days, to an apartment in Pittsburgh’s East Hills where it was the most expensive thing in the building, to an old farmhouse in the North Hills where its bench stored baby books, to an old Victorian along the Ohio River where my kids’ grandmother gave weekly lessons. Just writing all of that reminds me that I don’t stay put for long, and that I don’t like the process of moving.
Yesterday, three strong young men arrived at that Victorian house to escort my Steinway to its next home. We’ve downsized to a smaller home a bit farther north, the furniture move done by the farmer and my son and a sturdy pickup truck. But any hopes of our family moving the piano ourselves were dashed the day I tried to help the farmer move it 10 feet closer to the front door without gouging the new hardwood. My piano has a cast iron harp and weighs 800 pounds. A half-foot felt like a half-mile. I was no help.