BLOG DIRECTORY: The blog you are on now is JOHN AARON STORIES and there are over 50 entries. To read them all keep scrolling down on your screen until you come to the end of what you think is the last story. Then, look to the bottom right and click on the link OLDER POSTS. Keep repeating until you come to the actual end. John Aaron Stories contains true accounts of incidents that actually happened during my long carrier as a piano technician.

A second blog I write is WELSH STORY TELLER which can be accessed by going to the ABOUT ME profile and clicking on MY COMPLETE PROFILE and scrolling to the bottom of the profile. Click the WELSH STORY TELLER link. This blog can also be accessed directly at http://welshstoryteller.blogspot.com/  The entries in WELSH STORY TELLER are based on actual incidents that happened to my family and friends, but, are fictionalized for comedic entertainment. They are typical of stories I tell at my public speaking engagements. We Welsh have a saying, "Truth is a poor story teller."

The third blog I write is called JOHN AARON COOKS which can also be accessed by going to MY COMPLETE PROFILE and scrolling down to the JOHN AARON COOKS link. It can also be accessed directly at http://johnaaroncooks.blogspot.com/  JOHN AARON COOKS contains stories and recipes drawn from my hobby of cooking.

The fourth blog I write is JACK OF HEARTS HOBO which can be accessed by going to the ABOUT ME profile and clicking on MY COMPLETE PROFILE, or, accessed directly at http://jackofheartshobo.blogspot.com/  This blog is about another hobby I enjoy, recreational hoboing.

The fifth blog I write is JOHN AARON POETRY which can be accessed by going to the ABOUT ME profile and clicking on MY COMPLETE PROFILE, or, accessed directly at http://johnaaronpoetry.blogspot.com/

 Enjoy all five blogs.  JOHN

THE 88 KEY ADDICTION

I remember reading something Mark Twain wrote in his old age where he said that he loved being a river pilot more than any other profession he had ever undertaken, and, had the Civil War not closed the Mississippi River and put him out of work, he would gladly have spent his entire life on the river. Considering his future success as a writer, many would doubt the sincerity of his remarks, but, not me. When something gets into your blood, it's hard to shake off.  In my case it is being a piano tuner/technician, a trade that goes back in our family to my grandfather. I've been at it for over forty years. I have often said that if God gave me the choice of either playing pianos, or, working on them, I'd rather work on them. Did I have other options? Sure. In the late sixties I worked for several major record companies as a studio and road musician, writer, arranger, and artist road manager. By the time my oldest daughter was two she had an English nanny and we lived in a penthouse overlooking the ocean with Johnny Cash as our neighbor. However, I still did piano work part time. (If you care to hear some recordings for which I wrote the songs, arranged the orchestrations, and played the piano, Google recording artist Janie Christina.) While still in my twenties, I was a highly paid consultant for Bell Labs and helped develop the musical note sequences used in the touch tone telephone system. Since it was my call, and I was still a piano technician, I set the dial tone at A440 so my tuning customers only had to hit the A note on their piano, while listening to the dial tone, to know if their instrument was in need of tuning. As a free lance writer and photographer I have published hundreds of articles and photographs in major National publications. Many editors offered me full time employment. A major Philadelphia radio station offered me a job as a talk show host. A large National corporation tried to make me their vice president of research and development. I was the personal secretary to an International multi billionaire banker. I get paid to do story telling and stand up comedy, an avocation I could easily pursue full time. Some of the preceding I may write about in future blogs, but, the point is, piano work was neither my only option, nor, was it the most lucrative, but, it was my addiction. Although I get to tune for many famous people, I actually enjoy the everyday people I meet much more. I love learning about their work, their hobbies, and their viewpoints on life. Bottom line, however, it's the instruments themselves. I remember taking the piano in our living room all apart and putting it back together whenever my parents were away for the evening. I was about ten or eleven years old. All these years later, I still do not claim to totally understand this complex instrument fully, because, pianos take on a life of their own. There is a weird phenomenon in physics where an object becomes greater than the sum of it's parts. Steam locomotives, ships,and even computers are like that. Likewise, is a piano. If it were not so, a concert artist would not test dozens of instruments of the same make and model to find the one that is just right. Each piano I work on has it's own personality and quirks. I'm never bored. Then there is the fact that in most jobs, be it a salesman, surgeon, or soldier, most days come down to "you win some, you lose some." At the end of my day I get to look back and know that every piano is better because I worked on it. That feels great!

YES, I'M THAT JOHN AARON!

Often when I meet people for the first time, and they find out I'm a piano tuner, the next thing they say is, "You're not the John Aaron who was in READER'S DIGEST?" I am that John Aaron and I have answered that question thousands of times since February of 1989 when an anecdote about my piano tuning appeared in the popular READER'S DIGEST feature, ALL IN A DAY'S WORK. At that time, the United States readership alone was about 45 million, and nearly every reader must have seen the piece about me, because, of the ten anecdotes that were published that month, mine was the only one that the editors added a color illustration to. With its position right in the center of the page, you couldn't miss it. When the magazine came out I got phone calls for days. Since starting this blog, it is the thing readers most often contact me about. My "fifteen minutes of fame" has been going strong for twenty-eight years!

I actually submitted the item myself because my living room needed painting and I HATE to paint. I had noticed that READER'S DIGEST paid $400.00 for contributing such tid-bits and that was a lot of money in 1989. More than enough to hire a pro and get me out of my upcoming painting chore. So, I thought over funny incidents that had happened to me in my work, weeded them down to ones that were publishable, and, picked one involving a cute eight year old girl. Nothing like buying a little insurance. I typed it up and put it in the mail. In a short time I got a phone call form an editor at the magazine asking how he could contact the girl and her parents to verify my story. If everything checked out, my item was in, and the check was in the mail. Sometimes the good Lord blesses the lazy.

Following is the anecdote as it appeared on page 84 of the February 1989 edition of READER'S DIGEST: "Like Many Piano Tuners, I am a semi-retired professional pianist. One day after tuning a customer's concert grand, I played a few scales in the same manner that a racing driver might open up a car on the track - to see what it can do. After I made a few runs up and down the keyboard, my customers eight-year-old daughter, who apparently had been struggling along with her lessons, looked at me and asked, "Mister, do you have more fingers than I do?"

Besides working on pianos I have played studio sessions for many recording artists. If you would like to HEAR ME PLAY THE PIANO Google Janie Christina. The guy backing her up on the piano is yours truly. You may also E-Mail rockpresspublishing@comcast.net and request free MP3 downloads.

HE GOT NO RESPECT

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I tuned pianos for many of the big night clubs that flourished in South Jersey before the advent of the Atlantic City casinos, which killed them all off. Because I could come and go as I pleased, I often dropped in to see performers I was interested in. Although I am a musician, I was always fascinated with the comics. Rodney Dangerfield was one of my favorites. "I used to date a girl from Buffalo," he'd say, "why can't I meet a girl with normal parents?" Pure corn by modern standards, but, I loved it. Unlike today's comics who do a ten minute routine, five minutes of which is four letter words, the guys like Rodney could do an hour or more and keep it clean. In those days most clubs presented two shows a night. One night I finished up my regular piano tuning service calls and headed over to the club to catch the end of Rodney's second show. Backstage he lamented that he had a toothache that was killing him and he intended to find a dentist first thing in the morning. I told him that most of the dentists in the area were tuning customers of mine and I knew a few who had offices attached to their homes. I would call my wife at home and have her access my files and find a dentist who was willing to open up his office at this late hour and take care of the tooth immediately. My wife soon called back and I drove Rodney to the dentist. I was in the room for the examination. As the dentist poked and prodded around Rodney's mouth accessing the problem I heard Rodney say," I've got lousy teeth doc, but, my kids have great teeth. Thank goodness my wife cheats on me!" As the doctor arranged his dental instruments Rodney gripped the arms of the chair and with a look of panic on his face inquired, "Warden, has the governor called yet?" The dentist took no fee for his work except for a few photos of him and Rodney taken by me. Rodney insisted that the doctor and his wife come to the club to see his show the following night from a ringside table with dinner on him.
Rodney passed away around age 82 from heart problems. I knew his legal name was Jack Roy, changed from his birth name Jacob Cohen early on in his life. I wondered what name he would be buried under. He went with Rodney Dangerfield on his headstone. The inscription? "There goes the neighborhood."

CRIMINAL MINDS

NEWS PHOTO

Criminal Minds is a popular television show about FBI profilers who often figure out crimes before they happen based on psychological clues.  About 25 years ago I unwittingly became a profiler and predicted a murder months before it happened.  Unfortunately, I was not believed and the ending was tragic.

Due to spousal abuse, a piano tuning client of mine had her husband removed from their home and filed for divorce.  She had been a music major in college and loved playing her piano. Despite having a restraining order in place, her husband got into the house when she was at work and filled the entire inside of the piano with kitty liter which made the piano unplayable.  It took me an entire day to clean it out.  A few weeks later the husband again entered the house and broke off many of the hammers which disabled most of the keys. Once again I had to do a big repair job.  A month later the husband got into the house again and took a hammer to the entire piano which rendered the instrument useless.  I explained to the wife that the violence was escalating and I was certain the next time her husband returned he would go after her.  I suggested she move out.  She dismissed my suggestion and asked me to find her another piano.  Unhappy with the way she brushed me off, I dropped by the local Police Station and asked that they put the house under surveillance since I was sure a tragedy was in the making.  One again I got the brush off.

A few weeks later I read in the newspaper that the husband entered the house, abused the wife, and then shot her to death.  He then drove his truck to a remote location along a nearby river bank, put his gun in his mouth, and blew most of his head off.  Would things have turned out differently had my warnings been acted upon?  You decide.

THE HONEST MILKMAN

MILKMAN AND HIS DIVCO  TRUCK

 Most of those who read my blog on line are under fifty years of age and probably have little to no recollection of home milk delivery which was all but over by 1976. Therefore, a brief history lesson is in order. Before the advent of modern preservatives, milk did not have a long shelf life. It also had to be packaged in glass bottles with cardboard stoppers.  Maximum container size was one quart.  Most households required fresh milk several times a week, if not daily. Add to that the fact that the convenience stores we all take for granted, had not yet planted themselves on every corner.  Enter the milkman.  His job was to go thru a neighborhood house by house and deliver the dairy goods required by each household.  Milk was the staple, but, often butter, eggs, and fruit juices were also available.  Next to each doorstep was a small insulated box.  The consumer left a note in the box to let the milkman know what to deliver that day along with empty bottles to return from the previous delivery.  Once a week the milkman left a bill in the box for goods received.  In turn, the consumer left a cash payment that the milkman retrieved on his next visit.  In those days people seldom used checks for small payment amounts.  Also, in those days, most people were honest and would not steal the cash out of a milk box. Milk was delivered in special trucks made by DIVCO  (Detroit Industrial Vehicles COmpany) which allowed the milkman to drive while standing up and exit the truck from either side.  The trucks were not refrigerated relying on dry ice to keep the milk cold. DIVCO ceased manufacturing after nearly sixty years in 1986.  Today DIVCO trucks are highly sought after by collectors.  Milkmen always wore uniforms, as did most blue collar professionals years ago.  Compare the smartly uniformed gas station attendant or cab driver of yesteryear, complete with hat and bow tie, to the last guy who pumped your gas, or, drove you to the airport.

 In 1966 a woman contacted me to service her piano.  She complained that many of the keys were making no sound at all and many more keys were sluggish and hard to push down.  I knew from experience that something had gotten into the mechanism of the piano.  Over the years I have extracted pencils, toys, eye glasses, coins, jewelry, photographs, greeting cards, paper money, dead rodents, you name it.  In the case of this piano it was approximately $1700.00 in cash.  About twelve thousand dollars in 2017 money.  Her husband, a milkman, was napping in another part of the house, resting up after doing his early morning milk route.  Her excited shrieking woke him up.  He ran to the living room to investigate and found me, forceps in hand, pulling bunches of cash out of the family piano.  His wife continued to shriek.  At this point he remembered that years earlier he had put the receipts from his milk route on top of the piano and retired to the bedroom to take his usual nap. When he awoke later that afternoon the money had disappeared.  Given the fact that most folks did not lock their doors in those days he assumed someone had come into the house and stolen  the money.  He called his supervisor at the dairy he drove his milk route for and was instructed to file a police report and then forget about the money.  The dairy's insurance carrier would cover the loss.

What actually had happened was that he had rolled up the money into a wad and placed a rubber band around it.  The bankroll was knocked inside the piano when someone, probably one of his children, opened the key cover without noticing the money.  Over the years the rubber band rotted away allowing the loosened money to migrate throughout the playing mechanism of the piano until it obstructed the keys.  The honest milkman returned the cash to his employer who ethically returned it to the insurance company who had paid out the claim years earlier.  To my surprise, about a month later, I received a check from the insurance carrier for $200.00.  About $1400.00 in 2017 money.  The notation on the memo portion of the check read FINDER FEE. My wife and I took a nice vacation thanks to the honest milkman.

THE VICIOUS DOG

About forty years ago I was tuning a piano to the accompaniment of a constantly barking dog. The lady I was tuning for kept apologizing for the racket. I told her that I often tune pianos in school cafeterias with the students rioting, or, in piano stores with customers trying out nearby instruments. Noise does not bother me, I simply ignore it and concentrate on my work. I told her I felt sorry for her living next door to such constant racket. She explained that the barking came from a German Shepard that belonged to her next door neighbors. They left the dog chained outside, day and night, on a short four foot chain, very thick, and, padlocked around the dog's neck. The dog kept quiet when it's owners were at home, because, if he did not, they would beat him with a broom handle, or, burn him with lit cigarettes. People who lived on the block feared the couple and considered them crazy, so, none dared call the authorities about the poor dog's plight. A few of the men had once tried to turn the dog loose, but, were stopped by the padlock on the chain around the dogs neck. Also, the dog was extremely vicious due to his torments and tried to bite anyone who came near. There seemed to be nothing anyone could do for the helpless animal. I determined that I would rescue the dog. I would steal him.

I telephoned my wife Lois and had her drive to the dog's address to take photos of his surroundings while I finished my days work. We had a Polaroid Land Camera which developed and printed its own photos. It was normally used to photograph pianos for insurance appraisals. This day it would do reconnaissance duty. That evening we went over the photos and laid our plans.

The next day, when we were sure the dog's owners were away at work, we backed our piano moving van into their driveway parking as close to the dog as we could. We let down the piano ramp and opened one of the rear doors. We laid a trail of hot dog pieces from the dog's area, up the ramp, and, into the van. The entire time the dog was barking viciously, snarling, and bearing his ample teeth. The plan was that I would bait the dog with the hot dog pieces, he would start munching them down, and he would follow their trail up the ramp and into the van. At some point, I would cut the chain with a large pair of bolt cutters I had brought from our shop. Once the dog was in the van my wife would slam the door and we would drive off. The dog wanted no part of our plan. He did not want to eat the hot dogs. He wanted to eat me, or, at least bite off an arm or leg! I now worried that the heavy chain was not thick enough to hold him back!

My baby daughter Jane was with us, sleeping in the cab of the truck. Somehow, my wife got the inspired idea to offer the dog a jar of baby food. I removed the cap and used the bolt cutters to shove the jar within the dog's reach. He sniffed it suspiciously and stuck is tongue into the jar for a taste. If dogs can smile, he did!
Lois quickly opened another jar and soon had the dog eating out of her hand. She lured him up the ramp as I cut the chain. Once the dog was inside the van Lois set the jar of baby food down and jumped off the back of the truck as I slammed the door shut. We drove off with the dog raising all hell back in the cargo area! We had counted on the fact that no one would be home to witness our caper at that time of the day, and, it turned out, we counted right. The next time I tuned the piano for the lady who told me about the dog originally she said, "You won't have to put up with that barking dog this time. Somehow, he broke that heavy chain and ran away." I tried my best to look surprised.

My wife and I lived on a large farm out in the country. When we got home we just opened the truck door and let the dog make a beeline for the woods. We did not see him for a few days, but, could see that he was consuming the food and water we left out for him. Then, one morning, we found him sleeping on the back porch. He was now calm and friendly and I finally got the opportunity to cut the remainder of the chain from his neck. He played the part of a yard dog for the next few days until he wormed his way into the house and made his bed beneath Jane's crib. He appointed himself her body guard, and, even kept grandparents at bay until Lois or I ordered him to stand down. We never took him to a vet or got him a license, because, we feared his former owners might be looking for him. We never knew his actual name, so, we just called him Shep. He was my daughter's playmate until she was almost three years old. One autumn day he romped off into the woods, as was his custom, and never returned. We searched in vain. Jane vaguely remembers Shep. I'll never forget him.