Piano

The freight elevator is reserved for Friday between 10 and noon. A member of the maintenance crew has already been to my apartment and removed from a hallway closet two folding doors and wire shelving.

For my part, I've shifted its contents to a different closet in my 582-square-foot studio. Soon, a pre-owned Everett Upright Piano, with bench, will occupy that empty area, which once housed a handful of sweaters, a mat for morning stretches, a pail, broom, and dry mop. Instead of a wave of a hand like some ordinary wizard, I have used wit and brawn to transform a once humble space into a music room.

"How long have you been playing?" the eager salesman had asked as we climbed two flights of stairs to review pianos in my price range.

Catching my breath, I had said, "Oh, I can't really play. I'm a perpetual beginner. All I want is to learn how to play Rogers and Hart." He hesitated, perhaps wondering if I was serious in my search, then shrugged whatever and continued up another flight.

I didn't think he needed the history of my piano quest, but I'll tell you: Neither my first husband nor I played, but because we believed a house filled with music was a bonus, in 1970 we bought an upright and offered lessons to our daughters.

From the moment six-year-old Faith sat down on the bench; she treated the instrument as if it were her long-lost twin. (Her sister, Jill, tried lessons, but quickly decided to leave that particular talent to her sibling.)

My draw to the piano didn't occur during those years; it wasn't until another time and place that I decided to take lessons. It was the '80s, and the upright had been exchanged for an ebony baby grand. I can still see that handsome piece, with its wing-shaped lid, which seemed to send its notes soaring.

I wish I could remember the name of the young man who was my first teacher, and led me through Alfred's Basic Adult Piano Course - Level 1. But in 1990, when my first marriage ended, the baby grand and lessons exited, too.

Tommy and I first met in 1996, and we learned we had the same favorite song: Rogers' and Hart's "It Never Entered My Mind." That commonality, plus others, led to marriage and another piano. I was never able to smoothly play our tune, but I could pick my way through George Gershwin's, "They Can't Take That Away From Me."

I can still see -- and hear -- my wannabe crooner standing at the side of our Yamaha, belting out "The way your wear your hat..." Like an aged nightclub duo, I'd I search for the right keys while my sweetheart patiently waited for me to catch up to his lyrics.

After Tommy died in 2012, I sold our house. The piano went, too, as part of an estate sale. Because I was moving to a studio apartment in River North, I believed there'd be no room for the instrument. Or, maybe I thought any images of our schmaltzy showbiz scene would be too hard to bear.

During my nine-month stay in Los Angeles, my roomy one-bedroom apartment could've housed a piano, even a baby grand, but I never desired one. It wasn't until I returned to Chicago, and in a conversation with a friend that the thought came up. I must've been gloomy the day of our lunch, because she advised: "Find something to make you happy."

Happy. Then, clear as day I heard Tommy's tenor: "The way you haunt my dreams,
no, no, they can't take that away from me." I saw the two of us in the dining room alcove where the upright stood. I heard us laugh as I struggled with chords.

"A piano," I told my friend. "A piano and lessons; that made me happy."

So, once the pre-owned Everett comes home, and I hang portraits of jazz giants on walls where wire once hung, I plan to host "Sing Along Sundays." By then, I'll have purchased a few songbooks and those who can squeeze in, and are willing to play piano, or sing, will bring alive Rogers, Hart, Gershwin, and others of that era.

During those times, perhaps our chorus will imagine ourselves in a favorite musical. And because my mind's eye knows no limits, I'll see Tommy there, too. Maybe by then, I'll be adept at our favorite song, and I can accompany him as he sings, "And wish that you were there again, to get into my hair again, it never entered my mind."

Mean Girl

So far this month, two people are mad at me -- wait, maybe three. Perhaps even you?

Surprisingly, I'm okay with that. In my advancing age I've decided to switch from a lifetime of Nice Girl to an occasional Mean Girl.

Oh, you won't find me tripping the feeble, or hurling insults at strangers, just that I may do something that makes you mad -- like acting haughty or telling you no -- and, I can live with that.

This recent decision is so liberating! It all began in discussions with several acquaintances and I was not able to satisfy either with my No, can't do response.

While my repeated No eventually terminated the dialogues, it didn't stop my brain from simmering. Because of my decades of being nice, polite, and diffident, I couldn't leave the issues as settled. Instead, I obsessed about my dissenting and anticipated a night of tossing.

It was then the refreshing idea slipped in among my turbulent thoughts:  It's okay for someone to not like me, or to be mad at me; I will survive.

And with that light bulb moment, I felt unburdened, and knew I could then sleep peacefully.

Of course, this liberating notion required a bit of research: When did my intent of being Nice Girl begin? So while visions of avengers skipped on by without pausing, calendar years flipped backwards until I reached childhood.

I see pre-teen me posing in front of a three-way mirror in a department store circa 1950. Mother is seated on a cushion surveying the outfit I am sampling. "You look fine," she says, responding to my dour expression.

I dearly love this beautiful woman who is scrutinizing my fashion show. With her upswept hairdo, blue eyes, Max Factor red lipstick, and beauty queen shape, she resembles a film star. She is adorned with costume jewelry, a sweater I wish had a higher neckline, a slim skirt, and high heels she insists on despite the resulting bunions.

The scene in this department store is familiar: My mother selects my clothes. As usual, I button my lip about my hatred of her choices because I believe my tie to her so fragile that I dare not oppose. "If you want me to get it," I say about each unappealing ensemble, "let's do it."

So Nice Daughter continued until Mother died. She left this earth without ever learning of my loathing of the bulky winter storm coat, the school shoes with thick heels, or the faux cashmere sweaters that made my skin itch. I can live with that; she didn't deserve to ever meet Mean Girl.

Nice Girl was also Nice Student; first to raise her hand, turn in her perfect penmanship paper, and volunteer to erase the black board. That's why the unpleasant time in the assembly hall still reproduces darkly whenever I try to recall my eight years at Lafayette Elementary.

"I can't see the stage," I said to my chum on my left as I tapped the stiff cotton of her blouse. "Can I try on your glasses?"

After Sandy handed them to me and I placed them atop my nose and ears, I let out, "Wow, I can even see the buckles on their shoes."

"Elaine, stop talking or you'll have to leave the assembly," said Miss Lowe, her finger touching her lips for emphasis.

This had never happened to Nice Girl! I removed my friend's glasses, handed them to her, and used my small arm to wipe tears. I was mortified. In my childish mind, that incident dumped me into the group of bad kids, those who would be sent to the principal's office.

I had made the teacher I adored mad at me, and that incident must've seeped into my brain and stuck there as if it were chewed gum on the bottom of an unlucky shoe.

History reveals that my desire to prevent anyone's displeasure went beyond those I care about. I see now that it protected everyone from Mean Girl, like an insurance policy that promises full coverage even in the event of flood or earthquake.

As I look back on these petty examples of how important it was for me to be Nice, I wonder how off base I had been. Perhaps Mother would've taken my view, considered it, and said, "Oh, I never realized that. Of course, you can choose what you like."

And maybe Miss Lowe, if she had known how her simple shushing had devastated me and left a lifelong stain, would've pulled me aside and said something like, "I know this was not your usual behavior. You're still my star pupil."

No matter. You've been warned: Watch out for Mean Girl.

Abandonment Issues

The super thick exercise mat won't arrive until tomorrow. But I'm hyped up to begin, so I improvise. Two curly bathroom rugs tease. I place one on top of the other and plop them on the hallway floor.

From my filing cabinet -- a cardboard box stored in a closet -- I retrieve a folder labeled, Medical Soloway. Did I place my physical therapy exercises here, or could I have tossed them in my recent move?

Found! Now, I have no excuse to ignore the suggestion from my internist that began with her question: "Does the pain start in the butt and radiate to your leg?"

"Exactly," I had said during a consultation the previous day.  Was she clairvoyant, I wondered, or had a glance at my online chart revealed this was a recurring symptom?

"I've booked an appointment late in September for an epidural injection," I said. "Those shots helped in the past."

I went on, "The pain started after walking at least a mile." But instead of congratulating me for my daily treks as I had hoped, she announced, "sciatica."

Then she turned from the computer screen and said, "Actually, physical therapy may be better for sciatica than undergoing the needle."

As she was reaching for a prescription pad, I confessed, "Um, I did six weeks of PT in Los Angeles."

Her face brightened, "Did it help?"

"While I was doing it," I said.

"Well, perhaps you should try again before the epidural. Let the surgeon know the results and maybe you can avoid the shot."

That was the conversation that had me flat on my back, with stomach muscles pulled tight, and counting to 10 with each stretch. After the last maneuver, compressing on the two rugs, I scolded myself for abandoning these beneficial exercises.

If they were indeed easing the pain encountered with long walks, why did I shove the instructions deep into the file cabinet and ditch a padded mat in the L.A. apartment I recently left? I wondered: why are good intentions so easily dumped?

Instead of remaining on the duo mat to ponder the question, I retreated to my bed, the better to meditate on my latest desertion. With my eyes closed and the sliding door open to a morning breeze and the sounds of early traffic, I retraced other worthwhile plans I had promised to pursue, but instead paused.

Let's see, there were courses on speaking Spanish beyond the present tense, lessons on swimming while breathing on either side, private piano lessons so I could play Rogers and Hart, and group singing classes to accompany myself.

The most enjoyable part of all of these activities -- including my recent physical therapy -- was the pre-research and purchases. There might be new workbooks, wardrobes, equipment, and other necessities.

And once an instructor and location were determined, came the exquisite next step of entering the details on electronic and paper calendars. Ever the optimist, each activity would be "a recurring event," which I would optimistically stretch out for an entire semester.

Oh stop it. I know you're imagining I flunked at all of those endeavors, threw out the workbooks, tossed the goggles, sold the piano, and cursed the composers. Well, no, nothing so abrupt or dramatic. Each one slowly slipped away, like a full moon that disappears from the sky.

If friends or family inquired as to the status of any pursuit, I'd say, "I just got too busy with work and couldn't fit it in any more." (Substitute "lazy," "bored," or "discouraged" and you'd be closer to the truth.)

Fortunately, I barely remember the tails of my attempts, but I easily recall the beginnings. So, after a year's time, when a fresh catalog appears in my mailbox, or when a new apartment offers both an indoor and outdoor pool, or when a promotional flyer is pasted on a nearby bulletin board, I feel the familiar lures of  "Why Not?"

Of course, doing daily physical therapy exercises doesn't exactly match the pleasures I would win if I were to hablo español, do laps, tinkle the ivories, or croon. On the other hand, if I performed them every morning without fail, it's possible I could walk a mile without returning home for an Advil, heating pad, or icepack. And perhaps I could cancel the epidural.

And, if I were able to repair my body and walk or trot without stabs, perhaps I could one day run a marathon. Hold on; let me look into that.

Imposter

I'm confused about the name of the dog nuzzling me nose to nose. Is this Pippin, Rosie, Enzo or Ellie? There's at least six of these small breeds: Shih Tzus, Pugs, Beagles, Spaniels, Terriers, Cockapoos, and mixes of them all, that wander the dog park and eventually wind up on my lap.

While I fancy the larger dogs -- the Goldens, Labradors, and blends of the two -- these big guys are like adolescents, racing after each other, wrestling a bit, and then resuming their manic chasing.

"Which is yours?" The question came from a fairytale blond seated next to me on the bench. While she waited for my answer, her eyes tracked the tiny mounds of grass, trees, and ponds, ready to coo when I pointed out my pet.

I hesitated a bit, and then confessed, "Um, I don't have a dog." I said this quietly for I didn't want the word to spread that I was an imposter, someone pretending to have a pet and worse, planning to snatch one.

"I just moved into the building a week ago," I quickly added, "and don't have a pet. But, I've had Golden Retrievers in the past and miss being around dogs." What I didn't say -- because I wanted to avoid pity or solutions -- was that my budget couldn't squeeze in bills for vet, dog food, or boarding during planned trips to Los Angeles. Those details could wait.

This must've mollified her, because she then introduced me to a bench friend and pets. "That's Enzo and my Ellie," she said. At the sound of their names, the two dogs paused briefly in their rounds, lifted their button-sized ears, glanced toward their owners, and then renewed their mini trots.

My plot was working. I remembered how my two dogs swiftly introduced me to friends in new neighborhoods, so I was trying it again, but this time, without my own furry one in the crowd. I knew that dog owners are drawn to each other like long-lost relatives.  Instead of DNA, the bond is affection and addiction to animals.

But as I think of it, there was one dog-induced friendship that didn't go smoothly. The time was 1990; I was 52 and separated from my husband of 30 years. While a bit sad at the split, I was also giddy because I relished the fresh freedom. "I eat pizza on the couch while watching TV," I told friends, which at the time seemed the epitome of new beginnings.

With my Golden Retriever, Sasha, I met -- let's call her Lauren -- and her dog Midnight. (Not his real name either.) She was likely 20 years younger than I, but we bonded because we were single women with dogs.

Lauren and I met daily. We walked our dogs together. We visited each other's homes. We sat on bare and carpeted floors to continue our conversations and simultaneously stroke our pets. We were best friends. Then David entered the picture. (Of course, fictitious name.)

I had met David at a singles event and was immediately beguiled because he was the opposite of my husband. David smoked small cigars and pot, drove fast, ate revolting food, and was into New Age philosophy. And because I was feeling like a kid released from a long, intense residency in a boarding school, all of this made me aflutter.

Now, one of David's proclivities that I didn't include in the above line-up was that he related easily to women. Because of that, he had many female fans that relished his heart-to-heart conversations.

Lauren became one of them. "We're only friends," she said, when I claimed discomfort about their intense relationship. David seconded, "You have no reason to be jealous."

But their words didn't appease; I coveted their intimacy. Eventually, I wrote a long -- quite excellent and well-reasoned -- letter to the both of them, breaking off my bonds. They protested I was off base, but neither chose me over the other.

Now that I consider that time with Lauren and David, I wonder who was the imposter in that dog-engendered relationship? Was it Lauren posing as my friend so she could snuggle with David? Was it David believing his female friendships wouldn't evolve into something more? Or was it I, in a pseudo romance where I pretended to embrace David's unhealthy and risky lifestyle, but in truth rejected it?

Okay, I'll cop to being a bit of a fraud 35 years ago, but today in this dog park, I'm not trying to fool anyone: Bring on the pooches.

Balconies, Stairs, Stoops, and Folding Chairs

As the sun rises, I can peer to the east from the small balcony of my new 37th floor apartment and see Navy Pier. A slight turn of the head to the west brings into view the Tribune Tower. The Chicago River, in its natural green tint, and Lake Michigan -- blue as far as the eye can see -- are also part of my sky-top view. It is quiet now; only the soft rush of early morning autos reaches my ears.

Sitting outdoors on a perfect Chicago summer day coaxes my mind to travel backwards to other unforgettable places where I have perched. And like a jigsaw puzzle whose picture only emerges when all of the parts are snug in place, I add the characters who help create a picture of my past.

The year is 1996, early evening; I am sitting at the top of a long staircase outside my Henderson St. townhouse. My Golden Retriever, Sasha, is hip-to-hip next to me. She rises and madly rushes to the bottom stair to greet her friend: it is our neighbor Tommy returning from work.

As Tommy pets Sasha, I boldly ask, "If you ever want to catch a movie, let me know." I have practiced this sentence because dog and I have said good morning to this fella ever since we moved in. He'd be out for a run the same time as Sasha's first walk. I had learned he was about my age and single. At the time, I was merely looking for a pal in my young neighborhood, and thought Tommy a candidate.

"I go to the Y Mondays, Wednesdays, and Fridays," he said, likely eager to add his fitness credentials. So any Tuesday or Thursday." I picked a Tuesday, and that was how my second marriage began.

Now, let's flip the calendar backwards to 1970. See my 32-year-old self as I sit on the stoop of a townhouse in South Commons on Chicago's near south side. The brick homes are built around a square, so my neighbor and I can lounge, and at the same time watch our children at play. My daughters are six and seven-and-a-half years old, my friend's two daughters nearly the same.

The scene looks idyllic: the children scooting and whooping in the courtyard are shades of white, black, and brown. We live in a community where that palette was the purpose -- urban pioneers, eager to be part of an experiment to learn if people of different races, incomes, and ages could live together.

While the youngsters are carefree, these two mothers are dour, for we are both in first marriages chipping at the edges. "I don't know what to do," I tell my friend. "Is divorce the answer?" I have asked the question, but will stay wed until he and I part many years later.

Now let's travel far back and ride a Red Hornet streetcar to Division Street circa 1940's Chicago. It's not me on outdoor seats; instead my parents and neighbors on this immigrant block.

"Lock up," my mother says to my father. She is talking about Irv's Finer Foods, our corner grocery store. She has removed and folded the apron she wears in the store and hid it behind the counter where she will unhappily unfold it tomorrow and place it over her head. She does this carefully, so as not to mess her up-swept hair.

"Some kids might want an ice cream bar," my father the askew optimist says. He is sitting on a folding chair outside of the store. His cronies are lined up on one side and my mother on the other. He puts his hand on her bare arm -- it is a hot summer's night -- and she shakes it away. The movement is her answer and a gesture that cracks my heart.

Dad ignores the slight and turns to his pal. "Did you listen to the Cubs game?" he says. His brown eyes catch the light of the lampposts. "Farshtunken," his friend slams. "They're still my boys," my father says.

While our parents are lined up on the chairs they have schlepped from closets, my brother and I, and a slapdash mix of kids are racing wildly on the concrete sidewalk. "Oley Oley Ocean free," someone screams. "You're it!" shouts another.

Before I leave my balcony and reminiscing, I wonder, why these scenes and not others? Surely there were patios and porches where I enjoyed the summer air and dear companions. But when I peer into each vignette, I realize they were all wrapped in beginnings and endings: A sweetheart married and buried. A young love found and lost. A childhood carefree and bruised.

Life. Now a new one.