On a sultry Friday morning before a long Memorial Day weekend, I stumbled upon a Fresno Bee ad for a brand-less “piano,” sandwiched among “moving sale” items. The seller’s address traced to a working class neighborhood in south Fresno that probably wouldn’t house a pricey instrument, but I was still curious enough to make the 20 minute trip that might reap unexpected rewards. Driving down Palm Avenue, drenched in sweat, sticking uncomfortably to the seat of my air condition-less, beat up old Caravan, I meandered down Shields to “2416 N. Adoline,” the last house on a never-ending block.

Without a single moving sale sign in sight, I left my car, and tentatively edged toward the entrance to obtain a closer glance at the address. At this same moment, a 40 or so, bespectacled woman appeared holding a self-made sign post and introduced herself as “Alice.”

“Is this the where the piano is?” I asked reservedly. “Yes” she said with a smile, as she nudged me down the quaint hallway of her home.

Before I knew it, I was eyeing the prize, a monstrous size upright piano that stood nobly up against a far wall. It was a mahogany encased, scruffy looking instrument, with a conspicuously sanded exterior that suggested a half-baked attempt at refinishing. The most ornate part of the piano was its leg work—it had a fancy, scrolled mid-portion that would turn heads in an antique store.More the identity crises surrounding pianos, and the palace intrigue detective work required to solve mysteries..........

Continued at Word press.