Looks like I've decided to adopt Lester, the 97-year-old piano.
I had a long phone conversation with the local piano tuner last Tuesday evening. Having read the negative opinion of the tech from Jersey and listened to the video of the piano being played that I posted here on my blog, his revised opinion is that the Jersey boy just wants to sell his own used pianos.
And that assuming that I'm not looking to play pounding Lizst all day and all night or make commercial recordings or prepare myself to play in major concerts halls, he gives it that the instrument in question will suit me just fine. Cracked bridge in the bass? No, it'd be making awful noises if so. Slipping pins and imminent failure in the pinblock? It'd be excruciatingly out of intonation if that were the case. No, silly thing just needs tuned.
So, I've arranged with a piano mover to meet me at the church late this coming Wednesday afternoon. They'll bring it up and move it in to the Sow's Ear.
And the piano will probably sound like a squealing pig for a fortnight or more, because it has to settle into the climate here at the house before it can be tuned.
Before it comes, I still have to remove the baseboard from the wall it's going against. No point in pushing that behemoth out of the way more than once. And take down my concert posters, which will now have to be hung higher.
Oh, yes, and sweet talk my neighbors (the ones with the awful aluminum siding) into letting the piano movers cross their yard if that's the only way they can get a straight shot at my front steps.
(I do hope the plywood bedboard in the guest room is big enough to cover next door's grass . . . I'd hate to have to go to Lowe's and buy a new sheet just for this!)