My mom loved music. As a girl growing up in Philadelphia, she took piano lessons. Then after moving to the barren prairie's of Montana as a young teen, she begged to continue her lessons. Grandma found a piano teacher who traded lessons for eggs. As soon as school was over, mom would rush to Miss Hunt and for awhile was lost in the magic of music. She learned to play all the classics and favorite ballads. Then she moved to Wyoming and married my dad where they lived on the side of a mountain, miles from the nearest neighbor. She missed her music, but didn't complain. But my dad was an observant man, and for their first wedding anniversary this cowboy went to Billings, Montana, the closest big town, and brought home his gift to her--a brand, new piano.
I can only imagine her surprise and joy. Soon the house was filled with the familiar melodies of Bach, Chopin, and Mozart. Daddy loved music, and when she played a familiar ballad he would take out his harmonica and play along. After supper, and the dishes washed and put away, we often would gather around the piano and sing. The evening usually ended with the strains of Daddy's favorite classic--Bagatelle No. 25 in A minor commonly known as "Für Elise" by Ludwig van Beethoven.
In the crisp winter night air one might hear a coyote join in and add to the melodies floating down across the mountain.