Piano Tuner

"Many [piano tuners] play octaves using the thumb and the third finger since the little finger is not strong enough to withstand the repeated stress." 
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We grew up in a non-smoking household.  None of my six family members smoked.  No guests were allowed to smoke.  But there was one visitor, who came no more than once a year, who was permitted to smoke:  the piano tuner.  My dad was picky about his piano and not just anyone could touch it.
I always knew when the piano tuner had visited.  When I arrived home form school the doors and windows would be wide open and the living room would smell like smoke.

Piano tuners are a breed unto themselves.  The piano tuner would arrive with a case full of tools.  He would prop up the back of our antique grand piano, the first piece of furniture (even before a sofa) to fill my parents' living room as newlyweds over fifty-five years ago.  He would light up a cigar, stick it in between his teeth, and start tapping on the ivory keys of our Mason & Risch.

A piano tuner's work is tedious; it can't be rushed.  He pounds the notes over and over again until his fingers are numb.  "Many [piano tuners] play octaves using the thumb and the third finger since the little finger is not strong enough to withstand the repeated stress." I suppose that's why the piano tuner smoked cigars rather than cigarettes.  He knew he was in for a long day.

In Norman Rockwell's Piano Tuner, a little boy waits patiently, his hands folded behind his back, as a man tinkers at the keys of his piano.  The man is completely absorbed in his work.  He cocks his ear towards the piano, not wanting to miss a note.  A coat, umbrella and towel rest on the piano bench. Light seeps through a nearby window.  But the little boy does not go outside to play; he still waits until it his turn to sit at the piano once again.

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