As Christmas day came to a close, she sat transfixed, leaning forward, her face turned full into the open bell of the grand piano. Hands clasped, tired body at attention, she listened with every ounce of energy she could muster, working to sift out the sounds of a Chopin nocturne from the hubbub of happy family noises. Sounds that rolled into the room and surrounded her, flung there by the nimble fingers of her 18-year-old great-grandson.
This very piano once belonged to her husband and had filled their home with music every day, sometimes for hours at a time – beautiful music of all kinds, from Beethoven to Sondheim to self-styled hymn arrangements to medleys of 1940’s big band favorites. Music was part of the air we breathed when I grew up in that house. It flowed from the piano, or came through the speakers of a home-built hi-fi set. Whether coming from my father’s large hands on the keyboard, or from the vinyl long-play records my dad regularly checked out of the local music library, we were surrounded with melody.
In our 21st century culture of instant downloads, pocket-sized music machines and oh-so-private listening, it is sometimes hard to imagine living spaces serving as concert halls for entire families, but that is what we enjoyed in our home. I had my own small collection of 45 records, but more often than not, I chose to listen to the music my dad provided.
Please follow me over to A Deeper Family today, for my monthly contribution to that fine space. . . 
Mom and me in 1947, just before I turned two and my brother Tom was born.
