Yamaha

It is always a rendition of chopsticks. Given a keyboard in any place and circumstance and for any level of musical ability or not, it is always the grating tune of chopsticks. I can forgive the player on this sole instance as he was quite excited about the delivery of my mother's Yamaha organ. His wife was almost speechless to have the instrument in her own home. It was, for her, the end of a long search for the very organ on which her father had taught her to play many decades earlier and thanks to the facilitator that is E-Bay the organ had reached its new home. I had struggled to lift the bulky instrument from the load bay of my estate car. Earlier that day, The Boy and me had comically edged it out of mothers house and across the busy road, half panicking as a car turned into the bottom of the road and started to move towards us. Those clever Japanese manufacturers had provided hand holds in the rear wooden panel which combined with a further convenient flat edge just below the lower range of keys for those very, very rear occasions when the organ required to be moved in its lifetime. We had shuffled along the route from house to car in small dainty steps interspersed with cursings and profanities.The E Bay description stated 'Excellent Condition' and we were very conscious of upholding this category. The organ, carefully laid on its back and eased into the flat loading bay had survived any scuffs or more serious damage. It was then draped in a tartan travel rug and dust sheets which only exaggerated its size and shape but made us feel that we were carrying something very special. It was. Mother had purchased it in the early 80's with an inheritance from her own father, our Grandad Dick and it was a poignant reminder of his own love of music through many years of playing in a Brass Band. It was however a hard decision to pass it on but it had felt right and appropriate to do so in mother's plans. In sharp contrast upon arriving at our destination some 63.8 miles distant, the husband, a farmer, took up the opposite end and like leading a calf to feed he effortlessly dragged the organ along with my clinging, breathless form to the farmhouse door. Manor Farm sat at the foot of the Hambledon Hills in North Yorkshire. Just around the corner of the towering moorland slopes I had caught a glimpse of the chalk bright white horse grubbed out of the slopes which can be seen well into the flatlands around Thirsk, Herriott country. A couple of raised stone steps provided slight obstacles on entering the Listed 18th Century  built house. It was a close thing to avoid the grazing of knuckles on the door jambs and further into the narrow garden passage, the tongued and grooved wainscot boarding. A graceful but timid lurcher dog sniffed the air in my wake as I struggled past. A diminutive Jack Russell dodged between my legs. I made a mental log to try to avoid running the small dog over on leaving the farmyard. The recipient of the organ fussed around in a nice way. I apologised in case I had brought any mud into the house on my townie brogues but I was jovially reminded that this was a farmhouse and mud was a part of the fixtures and fittings. The garden passage was traversed without damage to the organ or injury to its hauliers and then a sharp right turn into what appeared to be the dining room. I was a bit out of breathe by this stage and welcomed the request to set the instrument down just in front of the south facing window. The view was astounding. Sweeping fields and a few hardy windswept trees stretched into the far distance. The molehill pockmarked meadows competed for a foothold with the moorland slopes, a purpley heather colour with sheep grazing on any greenery in such a sparse and harsh environment. The sunlight streamed through the low clouds and a very faint arch of rainbow ebbed in and out of brightness. Inspirational for playing I commented to the proud new owners. Then the chopsticks started as part of the due diligence for something bought from a stranger from a global internet market place. Everything appeared to be in working order and 'Caveat Emptor' was waived amicably. We shook hands as though we were lifelong acquaintances. I again reminded myself not to run over the Jack Russell as I made to leave the farmyard. I caught a glimpse of Snowy in my rear view mirror as I turned the corner into the high hedge flanked lane. It had been a successful organ transplant.