A Nostalgic Touch

The long good-bye: packing up the final family treasure

by Matt Keenan

The solitary piece of furniture at the family home: the Kimball.

The final chapter of saying goodbye to a parent is not the funeral. Nor is it sorting through the clothes and divvying up the photos, the letters—or in my Dad’s case, the bottles of Pinot Noir in his wine cellar. The final act is selling your parents’ house. And if that house is where you spent all of your formative years and remained central to your life in the years post college, then it is a home.

So it was with a four bedroom, three-bathroom house at 3616 17th street in Great Bend.

The story goes that Dad purchased the two-acre vacant lot in 1967 from the previous owner, an insurance executive in town. A man, it seems, who was allergic to risks. The kind that come with a dwelling to be constructed on a body of water known as a sand pit. McKinney Sandpit to be precise, on the northwest edge of the city limits. The origin of the pit was never fully known, but dad said it was the product of large cranes digging halfway to China.

The true depth of the pit? Not known. The creatures swimming at the bottom? Not knowable. There were claims the water would swirl and could pull down the most experienced swimmer. So naturally any parent wanting to build a house on that lot with a family of five toddlers prone to misadventure? Dialing child services …

The house was finished in September 1968. The ages of the young occupants: Kate 12, Tim 10, Matt 8, Marty 7 and Beth 6 months.

That home and the adjoining attractive nuisance brought adventures beyond anything Larry and Ramona could have probably imagined. In the early morning of May 11, 1971, for instance, Tim tugged on the backyard trotline and when something tugged back, he climbed in the boat and hauled a state record fish – 34 pounds 8 ounces. Something called a buffalo head. A very rare species that, locals told us, flourished in very deep waters. After weighing that fish in the Dillon’s meat department (the health inspectors were AOL), the State Fish and Game officials placed it in a special tank and took it to their headquarters in Pratt. If you happened to attend the Kansas State Fair in September 1971, and your sister got scared when saw a huge creature -- yeah, that was Tim’s fish.

But as time wore on, it turned out that the centerpiece of our home wasn’t the sand pit or even the beauty of the sloping backyard boasting fifty-year-old cottonwood trees. Instead, it was in the great room, with vaulted ceilings, expansive windows overlooking the lake to the north. In the northwest corner of that room was a grand piano. A Kimball.

Mom was an accomplished pianist. In our inventory of things my parents had kept in the basement, we recently found newspaper stories from Mom’s hometown newspaper in Kingman describing a solo piano concert at age 10. At KU, she was a music education major, and in our town, she was one of a few who played the organ at St. Patrick’s for masses and special occasions.

Mom also accompanied many singers in recitals and musical productions at the local Junior College. She played classical music by ear.

Often, when we burst in the front door from school, Mom would be playing away. One tradition was on St. Patrick’s Day, we would gather around and start with “Oh Danny Boy” and transition to “When Irish Eyes Are Smiling.” Dad would start calling his siblings (there were many, remember, Irish?) and then work his way down the phone book. If your phone didn’t ring on March 17, your last name must fall somewhere below L.

Mom passed away in June 2002, but the piano never got lonely. On trips out to see Dad, my daughter Maggie would sit before Dad and channel Ramona, playing “Pride and Prejudice” with an audience of three. Marty’s son, Tyler was an even better pianist and occupied that bench many times.

But when Dad passed, we decided it was time to close this chapter. And with the possessions divided, donated or sold, there was only thing left in the house.

The Kimball.

Lori and I had negotiated with my siblings for it.

So on Friday, April 17th, I arrived at the U-Haul off I-35 in Lenexa. The state of the world in April was bleak. Life was virtually cancelled. I surveyed my travel companion. It was industrial. I climbed in. My knees were perched just below my nose. Hell was more comfortable. No matter. I was on a mission from Larry. Get the piano, bring it back and give it company.

Four hours later, I opened the front door on 17th street. Across the room was the only thing remaining. The tears streaked across my face. An accumulation of fifty years of life raced through my mind.

This was it.

After a couple minutes, the tears slowed and another emotion hit me. Panic. The notion of moving a 500-pound keepsake from A to B became reality. Ever tried to find a piano mover in a small town during a pandemic? Didn’t think so. Multiple calls two weeks in advance got nowhere. So Brother Tim had a plan B – he assembled a group of three ‘volunteers’ plus Tim, me and another AARP member. You have heard of three men and a truck? This was three boys and a bad UHaul.

With the benefit of a couple YouTube videos, it happened. Deconstructed, strapped against the back wall of the truck, wads of twenties dispensed, mission accomplished.

I stayed the night at the Holiday Inn, and began the drive back the next day. April 18th was an overcast and blustery day. The entire world seemed to be falling apart. I-70 Ramona Keenan playing the family grand piano. was devoid of cars as far as one could see. I listened to Sirius XM’s 70’s on 7 on my phone, with the parade of songs I once listened to on Mom’s RCA radio. My wife had her intuition and called in the reinforcements. That is when my phone started to ping with calls from the children. We talked about the shared memories of Ramona and Larry, that home, the sand pit, the trotlines, the fireworks, the sein nets, carp, flathead, bass and perch. And yes, the music.

Today, the Kimball has started a new chapter on the east side of the state as we make plans to get her back to another Keenan home—Maggie’s.

Life is like a piano; the white keys represent happiness and the black show sadness. But as you go through life’s journey, remember that the black keys also create music. Author unknown

About the Author

Matthew Keenan has practiced with Shook, Hardy & Bacon LLP, Kansas City, Mo., since 1985.

mkeenan@shb.com