On Tuesday, the piano movers were late for our 3:30 appointment. When I called them at 4:00, the owner said, "Oh I've been waiting for you to call! I lost your address and your phone number." That made me a little nervous. Since they had another job at 6:00, we agreed they would come for our piano at 9:00 that night. Then one of their men couldn't meet them, so they had to pick him up and eventually got to our place at about 9:50 pm.
The owner of the operation was an older matchstick-shaped man who had broght along three burly helpers. Jonathan went out to watch them unload my piano from the container while I watched from the second storey hall window.
The owner of the operation was an older matchstick-shaped man who had broght along three burly helpers. Jonathan went out to watch them unload my piano from the container while I watched from the second storey hall window.
It was quite the surreal scene. It was completely dark, so they parked their truck with the headlights shining into our container. By this stark light it soon become apparent that only one of the three had ever moved a piano before. The others were just and only muscle.
Our piano emerged into the humid Missouri air on a wheeled dolly and hung for a perilous moment above the ramp while the skinny silhouette shouted out what I think was supposed to be instructions. At any rate they included the prophetic repetition of this phrase: "the piano will come down on you." Then my piano charged like a mad bull down the ramp. The men shouted and scrabbled to get out of it's way, straining to stop its careening path off the ramp. Near the bottom it wobbled precipitously, and I saw Jonathan take a step forward, as if to catch it. In that suspended moment, I imagined my piano on it's back on the pavement, with Jonathan's pulpy remains underneath. All I could do was whisper "Lord Jesus" though the window screen. I think the angels must have done a little pushing. Our piano righted itself at the bottom of the ramp, while the men wheezed out squeaky exclamations of accompaniment.
At this point I removed myself, and my adrenaline, to the back bedroom of our apartment and called my friend Judy to distract myself. Apparently, I should have saved that call for later, as it was all just beginning.
An hour later, I was drawn out from my retreat by the sound of Jonathan’s socket wrench in the hallway. He was taking off all the metal banisters in the stairway.
Our piano emerged into the humid Missouri air on a wheeled dolly and hung for a perilous moment above the ramp while the skinny silhouette shouted out what I think was supposed to be instructions. At any rate they included the prophetic repetition of this phrase: "the piano will come down on you." Then my piano charged like a mad bull down the ramp. The men shouted and scrabbled to get out of it's way, straining to stop its careening path off the ramp. Near the bottom it wobbled precipitously, and I saw Jonathan take a step forward, as if to catch it. In that suspended moment, I imagined my piano on it's back on the pavement, with Jonathan's pulpy remains underneath. All I could do was whisper "Lord Jesus" though the window screen. I think the angels must have done a little pushing. Our piano righted itself at the bottom of the ramp, while the men wheezed out squeaky exclamations of accompaniment.
At this point I removed myself, and my adrenaline, to the back bedroom of our apartment and called my friend Judy to distract myself. Apparently, I should have saved that call for later, as it was all just beginning.
An hour later, I was drawn out from my retreat by the sound of Jonathan’s socket wrench in the hallway. He was taking off all the metal banisters in the stairway.
With new visions of the piano and all three large men landing in a mangled heap at the bottom of the stairs, I retreated once again to my back bedroom. I fixedly tried to think of other things while I felt the piano thud it’s way up the stairs. At random intervals I’d hear urgent shouts, and I'd think “there it goes.” But instead, the piano appeared like a sudden miracle in our dining room, looking like it had always been there, right where I imagined it!
All in all, the move took about 3 hours.
I am now in absolute denial of ever needing to move it again--ever!
All in all, the move took about 3 hours.
I am now in absolute denial of ever needing to move it again--ever!
5 comments:
It made it!
I feel your pain. Of the four times we've moved our piano, only the last time was it moved by professionals. Glad you made it and hope you never have to do that again! Apartment living forever! Yay!
Great gracious blue blazing fire! What would have happened if Jonathan did not have a socket wrench?
Caleb and I both laughed out loud at your story. So glad it made it!
Growing up, we had a monstrously heavy (but glorious sounding)upright that required a new set of friends each move.
Hilarious.
-Tim
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