My mother was born in 1913, and so was my piano. Helen Bloom is, as we say, of blessed memory. The Mason & Hamlin baby grand remains a tool of blessed memory — allowing me and others to play the songs that my mother loved: Hoagy Carmichael’s “Stardust,” the Puccini aria “Un Bel Di” or any of the standards of the ‘30s and ‘40s.
Dan Pardo, who will be playing the piano for the evening of the fund raiser, seated at the Mason & Hamlin. (Photo courtesy of Deborah Rutty.)
Now that the Mason & Hamlin is about to turn a century old you are invited to something usual — a birthday party for a piano that will honor not the endurance of an instrument but a synagogue community as well, because all the proceeds go to Congregation Beth Shalom Rodfe Zedek in Chester.
In keeping with the spirit of the event, I thought that I would reveal here the conversation I had recently with my old pal. After all, there is a rule in journalism — never let a piano pass the 100-year mark without an interview. And so:
LB: How do you feel at nearly a century old?
M&H: So how should I feel? My middle C is giving me fits, and my hammers have a touch of, what do you call it? — the jimjam jeeters.
LB: Oh you’re a comedian, too?
M&H: I learned from the best — Borscht Belt, you know. I was played on in the Catskills once. You been to the Catskills.
LB: This is not about me.
M&H: What? You play me all these years and now it’s not about you?
LB: Are you trying to be my mother? Stop with the guilt already.
M&H: It’s just that I’m being a little nostalgic.
LB: Yes, tell me about it. What was it like back in 1913?
M&H: An interesting time for music. Not like now. People actually played melodies in those days. Beautiful melodies. Kids. Every kid played, in the parlor.
LB: So, you were a big deal back then?
M&H: Soccer wasn’t invented yet. I mean, it was, but nobody ever heard of it in this country. So every kid played piano. And adults. After dinner families gathered around the old Mason & Hamlin (oh, there were Steinways, too, but that’s my overrated competitor, and I don’t want to talk about them.)
LB: And now?
M&H: Sometimes days, or weeks, go by and you don’t play me. What are you doing, writing books or something?
LB: I’m sorry. I’m trying to make a living.
M&H: You wrote the words to the musical while playing me. Didn’t A Woman of a Certain Age make you a fortune?
LB: It cost me a fortune. But let’s get back to the point. The party. We’ll have birthday cake and bubbly, and we’ll toast you.
M&H: Yes, and I’ll finally have someone who isn’t an amateur play me.
LB: I’m excited about Dan Pardo. Did you hear him play for us last High Holy Days at CBSRZ?
M&H: How would I go to Yom Kippur services? I’m happy here in my little corner of the world. And besides, I have nothing to a-tune for? Get it? Atone. A-tune?
LB: Well, anyway, Dan has put together a great program — music written during your lifetime, from pieces by Scott Joplin to George Gershwin to Samuel Barber to Dave Brubeck.
M&H: And you. Don’t forget something by you. Anyway, I’m excited. Actually. I know about him. He’s maybe the most talented guy ever born in Reading, Pennsylvania. And he’s been on the Goodspeed Opera House staff for three years.
LB: How do you know all this?
M&H: I read the papers. You remember those? Newspapers? Well, anyway he recently music-directed and wrote vocal arrangements for The Fabulous Lipitones, music-directed and accompanied Come From Away. Did you see City of Angels and Show Boat (oh, do I miss Jerome Kern) — he worked that, too. And others. What a guy.
LB: Wow, you’re more than a bunch of 88 keys, mahogany and strings. You actually have a brain.
M&H: (sings) I would wile away the hours, conferrin’ with the flowers, consultin’ with the rain, and my head I’d be scratchin’ while my thoughts were busy hatchin if I only had a brain…
LB: OK, OK, we’ll leave the singing to Dan.
M&H: But when, where, why, when, how?
LB: Ah, you went to journalism school too? Anyway, there are two levels of tickets for the event on Sunday, August, 4, from 4 to 6:30 p.m. As this is your 100th birthday, wouldn’t it make sense to ask for a minimum donation to CBSRZ of $100 per person?
M&H: That’s a lot of money. I remember when a concert cost five bucks, and a coffee a nickel, and a two cents plain cost only…
LB: Let me guess. Two cents.
M&H: Aren’t you brilliant. Well, you really need $100 a ticket?
LB: It will support all of the great things we do at the shul. You should see the oil bill. And we haven’t had a fundraiser for a long time.
M&H: That’s not my fault. You should have solar. And what if somebody can’t pay a $100?
LB: Well, there’s a second level of tickets. $50.
M&H: What’s the difference?
LB: Well, the house is a house, not a concert hall. So some of the seats will have obstructed views. That is, everyone will see you. But not everyone will have a clear view of Dan. People in those seats will pay a reduced rate.
M&H: What do they need to pay not to see you? A thousand? Oh, just a little joke there.
LB: Yes. Very little. But to the point. Whether people buy $100 tickets or $50 tickets or want to sponsor the event they’ll have a great time, and get their cake, too.
M&H: And how do they sign up to honor me?
LB: Call Wendy, at the office.860.526.8920. And you look through the closet to see if you have something in ebony and ivory to wear.
M&H: I’m so flattered.
LB: Don’t be. When I was a kid, I had a player piano. It never made me work so hard. I could just turn it on and it would play, “Yes, We Have No Bananas.”
M&H: Are you trying to pull my strings?
(For more information, call Wendy Bayor, 860.526.8920. For the entire transcript of the interview with the Mason & Hamlin, you should live so long.)