Bob said that Ruth is getting rid of a Hammond organ. It came with the house, sits in the diningroom. They are old, these neighbors of mine. They're members of the greatest generation, those who fought in world war two and those who waited faithfully at home.

Ruth's husband is coming home from the hospital. A bed is set up for him in the diningroom. There is no room for the Hammond organ. It must go. Bob tells me this in breakfast conversation. I bite my tongue to keep from saying, "can I have it?".

Bob says that Ruth has offered it to her daughter. If daughter doesn't want it, it will go to the other daughter. I smile, just listening. I always wanted a Hammond. I took piano lessons as a child. In high school, a neighbor's son studied organ. He had a full size Hammond organ in his parent's house. I had an out of tune piano. Since I was working my way through high school, I had some money for organ lessons. Found a teacher. Took lessons. Paid for them myself. Practiced on the organ in the auditorium at school.

This led to giving organ lessons while studying to be a teacher. I worked my way through college teaching music. As a young married, I was an organist choir director at local churches. I was OK. It doesn't pay well. Wish I had the time to be single minded about music, focusing on it entirely, getting really good. Didn't happen. My ear got better than my playing technique. I could tell when my fingers missed the timing. Too busy with other things to get really really good at playing. At one point, I made it into the Organists Guild, though.

Never had an organ in my house. All this flashes quickly in memory as Bob and I eat breakfast.
A week later, Bob calls. Neither daughter learned to play. They don't want the organ. Would I want a Hammond organ? Do birds fly?

Today, Bob and I went to Ruth's house to measure the organ. Yes it will fit in my diningroom. Back home, I call the piano mover. They will deliver the organ next week.