I used to, a lot. I took lessons for 5 or 6 years as a child, with indifferent success, and hated to practice because I hated putting all my mistakes on display. I did learn to read music well enough and enjoyed playing from hymnals and song books, straightforward, unornamented four-part harmonies of traditional songs such as we sang in music class in school. Here’s one of them: The Blue Book of Favorite Songs.
But when I was about 10 my mother showed me how to play by ear: the basic chord structures and their relationships to one another. She played beautifully by ear, and I took to it straight off once shown the essential principles. I had a very good sense of chording—how one chord leads into or resolves in the next, where to use a diminished chord, how to use a seventh, how a given chord in one key follows in a circular relationship (in both directions) to other keys. I could pick any tune I knew and place my hands on the dominant chord in any key and play it right there. Some nights I’d spend the whole evening at the piano, experimenting, working out the chords to new songs, and revisiting favorites.
Once away from my parents’ house at age 19, I never lived with a piano again until we inherited my mother-in-law’s spinet about 15 years ago. I never got all the way into it again, and my hands are stiff and unpracticed, but I can still chord my way through a good many songs—and play old tunes from the Blue Book that nobody sings any more—preferably when no one else is home.