Granny's piano was the first instrument I ever laid hands on. It was a mahogany Wurlitzer that stood against the wall in her living room. I was probably still in diapers the first time I slid the fall-board back to expose the strange repeating pattern of black and white keys. I pecked at them with a single finger, testing the sound of each against its neighbor, until an adult came in the room, closed the cover, and shooed me away.

I inherited the old upright last week. And after we rolled it against the wall in our own living room I found an envelope in the storage compartment of the bench. Inside was a brochure for her model along with the original bill of sale dated Sept. 29, 1965 for $720.85. Today that would equal nearly $3,500, an awful lot of money for a bookkeeper and an auto body repairman. It also explains why I was not allowed to haphazardly hammer away on the thing at will.

I watched my own children, eager to experiment with this new instrument in the house, as they slid the fall-board back and pressed the keys, timidly at first, then with more force and conviction. It sounded frantic. Their four hands crisscrossed in a tuneless and chaotic thundering on the keys. My first instinct was to quiet them, to shoo them away. But I didn't. Because I recognized the melody.

It was the same one I'd tried playing at Granny's house, the same one every untrained hand plays. It doesn't have a name, but it sounds like delirium and cacophony and joy.