Let’s step into the “Wayback Machine” (anybody remember Mr. Peabody and Sherman?) and venture into the late 1950’s, in Dayton, Ohio. 

We see little me, about 10 years old, standing on Main Street waiting to board the big yellow City Transit trolley to take me home.  It was a Saturday, late morning, in autumn. I had finished my weekly piano lesson at the Proctor School of Music, and my cherub choir practice at Westminster Church. 

The bus stop was near the Victory Theatre, now called The Victoria. Near the Victory was a piano store, possibly Fitzsimmons, and I would stand at the storefront window every Saturday, gazing at the beautiful new pianos. I was partial to what was called Italian or possibly French provincial finishes, ivory paint with gold trim. I was sure that I could play so much better on one of those beauties, better than on our old used upright piano with the chipped brown finish.

As I stood there waiting, the most dapper old gentleman approached me. He appeared to be in his seventies. He was wearing suede gloves, a black suit with a vest, a starched white shirt, a black tie, and some sort of hat, rather like an English bowler hat, not quite the fedora that I was used to seeing. I wasn’t afraid of him. There were plenty of people walking the downtown sidewalks in those days, heading to the Metropolitan or Rike’s across Main Street. 

He smiled at me and asked if I liked that piano in the window. I nodded and said, “Yes.” He then said, “Well, my dear, when you get home that piano will be waiting for you. Merry Christmas.” And with that, poof! 

No, he didn’t disappear. He just walked away.

My bus arrived; I put my quarter, or whatever the fare was, into the hopper and found a seat. I always looked for the little jump seat that was by the rear exit so that I wouldn’t have to sit by a stranger. 

As the bus left downtown and went up Salem Avenue, I pondered what had just happened. I knew that what the old gentleman said wasn’t true. It would have been impossible to transport that piano to my house before I could get there. Yes, the bus ride was slow, but not that slow. I wondered what that was all about! Why would anybody say that to a little kid?

In due time, I exited the trolley at Hillcrest and Catalpa and began the half-mile walk home, music book in my arms and musing in my head. No way could that piano be waiting for me. NO WAY! 

I picked up the pace a bit with each block, and as I turned off Catalpa onto Golfview, I began to run. I jumped up onto the porch and entered the living room. I glanced over to the corner and saw the same old brown upright piano that had always been there. No Italian/French provincial finish.

I wasn’t surprised, exactly. I knew it would have been an impossible feat. At the same time, I thought, just maybe, my parents had saved up enough money for an early Christmas present from a Santa who wasn’t in his uniform. 

No, that man wasn’t a Santa. He was a Grinch, one who enjoyed spoiling a young girl’s day.

I got the better of him in the end. I learned to play the heck out of that upright piano. And today I have a baby grand that I use to fill my house with everything from American standards to Chopsticks to Deck the Halls.

I think Santa worked his magic after all.