My Grand Father’s Violin

[This is a speech I recently presented.]

When I was a child I had a dream of being a virtuoso on the violin. My mother knew of this dream, and on my eleventh birthday, she gave me this violin. “This is Grandpa Sylvester’s violin that he started playing in the 1890’s. Learn to play it well and it will be your ticket to college.”

I knew my parents didn’t have enough money for college; so, with enthusiasm, I began working on my ticket to college. [Play a few horrible notes on my Grandfather's violin.] One night I overheard my parents talking in the bedroom: “Oh, George, we are so blessed to have such a prodigy.” “Genevieve, I can’t stand that screeching.”

When I started sixth grade, I began taking lessons and playing in the Emerson Middle school Philharmonic. As I walked through the mining town of Butte, I never suspected that some kids didn’t like violin players. The first day, I met such a kid on the playground: Bucky Loomis. He started punching me in the shoulder. “Hey, you fringin’ four-eyed fairy—with a fiddle. What a sissy.”

This was time for fight or flight. I shoved Bucky Loomis and ran as fast as I could. It was nightmare—he came closer and closer, but after a few blocks, I pulled away. This happened most every night. Sometimes he would jump me from behind a garbage can or from behind a car; but, he could never catch me—on the street or in my nightmares.

One day in class, Jeanie Aronen, the cute girl I had a crush on, told me,” I just heard that Bucky Loomis is going to fight you after school tonight.”

BBBBucky Loomis, I was trapped. Everyone in the school would be out in the alley for the fight. I couldn’t chicken out and not show up. My life flashed before me to my funeral. There I lay in the casket with my Grandpa Sylvester’s violin in hand. I hear my parents, “Oh, George, our dream is gone.” “Well, ah, at least now he won’t have to suffer the pain of practicing that violin.”

The whole school gathered around for the fight; they sounded like a medieval mob at a public hanging. Pow, Pow, Pow. End of fight; Three punches to the nose. My face is covered with blood. I skulk home. I see through the back porch window that Mom is sitting in the kitchen having coffee with her best friend, Loretta. “Oh, No. I did I want Mom to know about the fight—she would be on the phone to Bucky Loomis’s mom, all my friend’s moms, the school principal and then hold my hand and violin and walk me to and from school every day. I had a plan; I put my violin up to screen my bloody face, and walk past them [violin by head]

Mom said, “Geoff, say hi to Loretta.”

I said, “Hi,” and walked to my room.

When I started seventh grade, another problem showed up: Mousey Oulette. “Hey, you friggin’, four-eyed fairy—with a fiddle. What a sissy.” Mousey chased me home most every night—but he never could catch me. One day at the end of the year, Jeanie Aronen told me in class,” I just heard that Mousey Oulette is going to fight you tonight.” [Portray the fight with more careful punch blocks] Bam, bam, bam. Three punches to my nose.

When I started eighth grade, I met another obstacle: Spike Perusich. “Hey you [FFF with an F] (I now had a reputation and nickname.) I gave him a shove and ran. —but he never could catch me. One day on the playground; I threw a snowball at my buddy Joe Sicotte, but missed and hit Spike Perusich right in the back. Spike turned with a snear. The kids on the playground froze. [Loud sound of inhales] Spike was the mother of all junk yard dogs. “Hey, you FFF with an F,” I’ll crush you after school tonight.”

The whole school gathered round. [Simulate fight]. Bam bam bam—right on his nose. [Aside to the audience] Spike couldn’t fight! In fact he was such a bully that he had never been in a fight before. [I go back up to him and give a two circle undercut which knocks him over the alley fence into the trash cans.]

There were cheers from the crowd. I slept well that night. No nightmares, just Jeanie Arronen with her arms around my neck saying, “You’re my hero.”

When I started high school, I decided to quit the violin-- the social pressures were too great. Mom cried, “Well there goes your dream and your ticket to college.” Dad said, “I think you’ve made a wise decision, son.”

Well, the truth be known, there was a deeper reason for quitting the violin—I knew I didn’t have the commitment, much more the talent to become a virtuoso. I had spent more time running home from school than practicing the violin.

Have you ever had that realization! That your dream was not achievable? When reality set in that you couldn’t be a Michael Phelps, a Dorothy Hammel, or a Paganini?

But from lemons, we can make lemonade. When I went to high school, I joined the track team, and found that no one could catch me. No one at high school. No one in Butte. No one in Montana. Three years later, I won the state championship in the half mile. And from that, I earned a track scholarship to college.

And that is how my Grandfather’s violin got me a ticket to college.

Heal Thy Self

As I walked up to the Shields Date Farm in Desert Palms, I met a family of four walking out with date milk shakes made with flavoring made from dates grown on the farm.

 

"How's the shake?" I asked.

 

"Great, but a whole shake is too much--it's quite sweet."

 

I told them I was from Colorado Springs, and we exchanged some small talk.

 

Then their son, about eighteen, asked, "How did you lose your fingers?"

 

"Blew them off with a dynamite cap," I said. "That's shrapnel right there, I pointed out."

 

"Do you mind if I pray for you fingers?" the son asked.

 

"No. I said"

 

He raised his hand over my head and said with a quiver in his voice, "In the name of the Father, Son and Holy Ghost, I ask in Jesus' name that your fingers grow back.

 

"Do you think that will help?" he asked.

 

"I think it might work," I said politely.

 

 

 

 

The Buzz Cut Club

This morning while drinking my coffee at McDonalds, I overheard a father and son in the next booth. The boy appeared to be a kindergartener. The father carefully explained a lot of things: questions the boy asked him and interesting items that the father brought up. The father was transferring a lot of information of value to the boy.

 

I overhear many father-son conversations in McDonalds; most of them take place when it is the son's time to stay with the father.

 

The father talked about the boy's mother. He told his son that God had decided that he would marry her long before he knew her. Their love had happened for a reason, and he was glad that it turned had turned into a happy marriage and family.

 

I went for a coffee refill and walked by them on the way back. I said, "Looks like you have your buddy with you."

 

The boy said that it was "buzz cut day."

 

"What's that," I said.

 

"Every time we get a haircut together, we get a buzz cut, and then go to McDonalds for breakfast."

 

I talked to them both for a while, and found the father was "in transition." I assume that meant out of work.

 

The Buzz Cut Club is a beautiful thing.

 

 

 

 

The Piano Shop on the Left Bank

Some cover quotes about the book The Piano Shop on the Left Bank, by Thard Carhart.

 

In recounting his rediscovery of a passion of his youth, Thad Carhart has made both the technology ahnd the culture of the piano come alive. His skillful interleaving f the engineering considerations that go into making a great piano with the human satisfaction that comes of playing one has produced a totally engrossing book."  (Some of the tech stuff was not correct."

 

In this quirky and tender book about the rediscovery of his childood passion for music lies a deepre meditation on the voluntary dreems of acceptance by his chosen city.

 

Engaging...Carhart conveys his affection for Luc, the atelier and the piano with such enthusiasm that readers mught be inspired to return to their own chilhood instrument....A warmhearted, intelligent insite into a private Paris.

 

A captivating book , as desultory as an evening stroll, uyet full of knowledge,. It is suffused with Parisian sensations, the smell of fresh bread from the local bakery, water washing down the gutters in the morning....You can read it in an evening, but when you close it you feel you have gone on a holiday.

Grand Obsession

I recently read Grand Obsession by Perri Knize. The author has written articles on environmental policy and has had articles in The Atlatantic Monthly, Audubon, Sports Illustrated, Conde' Nast Traveler, and Outside.

 

Here is the book cover synopsis:

 

A fastinating, lyrical memoir about one woman's obsessive search for the perfect piano--and about finding and persuing passion at any age.

 

How can a particular piano be so seductive that somewne would turn her live upside down to answer its call? How does music change human consciousness and transport us to rapture? What makes it beautiful? In this elegantly written and heartfelt account, Perri Knize explores these questions with a mjusic lover's ardor, a poetps inspiration, and a reporter's thirst for knowledge?

 

My thoughts:

 

Obsession seems crazy after more than half the book.

 

I think she started writing the book, and then went into the research mode with forty hours of recordings of interviews. She does have quotes that are exactly what was said.

 

As a piano technician, I learned some stuff and felt on other points were diffused by her telling me technical things that others had told her--much was lost in translation.

 

 

Gentle heart, gentle words

At seven this morning, I went to McDonalds to read the paper and enjoy the usual: fifty cent senior coffee and a dollar Sausage McMuffin.  As I sat down, I saw that the guy in the booth next to me had a Hewlett-Packard carton and a small network computer on the table.

I asked him how he liked the computer. He told me that he had just opened the box and that the computer was okay, but he wouldn't suggest it for writing a long paper. I asked him a couple more questions and then sat down to eat and read. However, the guy kept on talking about the computer. He said he bought the small one because he didn't have the money for a laptop. He filled me in on his regular computer at home and that he didn't have Internet service. He said he thought that he had made a good decision. He again told me that he wouldn't suggest it for writing a long paper.

He soon became a bit irritating. I pick up a lot of conversations--this one was becoming strange, and I didn't want to know any more about this guy and his computer. I stopped responding and he finally he stopped talking. I could read and eat.

A few minutes went by before he made a cell phone call, talking loudly.

"Hi... I woke you up?

"I called to make sure you were up at seven fifteen--like you said.

"Well, that's what you asked me to do. I wouldn't wake you up if you hadn't asked me to wake you up.

"Yes, I did. Why? Are you surprised?

"Well, I asked you before I bought it. I wouldn't have bought it unless I had asked you first. 

"I can't return it now. Calm down.

"No, it's okay. We have a thousand dollar float on the credit card . I have a bill for a thousand, one for three hundred and one for eighteen for the car wash.

"No, that's seventeen-een--een--een and eighty cents, seventeen-een--een--een and eighty cents, seventeen-een--een--een and eighty cents.

"No, I'm not mocking you, it was seventeen-EEN-EEN-EEN and eighty cents for the car wash. You said eighty.

"Hey, I am not upset; I am not raising my voice. I speak with gentle heart and gentle words. You're the one who's yelling.

"The computer is nice; it sensed the wi-fi here and connected itself to the net.

"Wi-fi? Wi-fi is how the computer talks to the Internet. You don't understand anything about computers, do you?

"No, I'm not cutting you down. I just told the truth that you understand nothing about computers. Listen to me, I speak with gentle heart and words.

"I'm sounding like my father again? Get real, I am not my father, I never could stand the SOB.

"You don't want me to come home ever again? What does that mean?"

"Well, it's my house, too.

"I am not upset. You're the one who's upset. Breath deeply. One, two, three..."

The conversation continued. After ten more minutes, I realized that I hadn't read more than a paragraph. So, I picked up my stuff and moved to the othe side of McDonalds.

No escape. The conversation was just as loud--only everyone in the restaurant was now listening. After what seemed like hours, I got up and left--to read the paper at home. I guess I could have told him that he was talking too loud, but my street smarts told me that it was better just to leave.

The Purloined Skis

According to modern physics, there is a finite probability that one can just walk through a brick wall with out injury to the wall or the individual. That happened to me last Tuesday when I was skiing at Copper Mountain.

My friend Jim and I were skiing near the Timberline lift. After great runs on a perfect day with no lift lines, we decided to stop at the hutch at the base of the lift that was located half way up the mountain at 10,000 feet. We took off our skis and leaned them against a rack with at most 25 other pairs. We bought hot chocolate and set chatting at picnic table in the bright sun. We shared our granola bars with the gregarious Gray Jays.

Refreshed, we put our skis back on and rode up the lift. When we stopped part way down the run, I looked at my skis and noticed that they weren't mine! They were rentals from Christy Sports, but they were Solomon brand, not Rossingnol. I had taken someone elses' skis.

The hutch was a long way down the hill, a small speck between my ski tips. We raced down the hill; my best ski performance of the day. I imagined a guy coming back to put on his skis, only to find that they were gone. He certainly would be both confused and mad as hell.

We got back to the hutch quickly. I asked the people sitting at a table next to the ski rack if they had heard someone complaining about his skis being stolen. They all said no. I put the purloined skis back in the rack where I found them. I walked up the steps to the hutch and asked the guy running the concessions if anyone had complained about missing their skis. He told me he hadn't heard a thing.

I returned to the ski rack and put on the Rossingols I had started the day with. We skied down to the nearby lift and asked the operator if anyone had gone back up the lift with no skis on. The only way out of the area would be to ride up the lift to a higher one, and then ride down to the bottom. The operator said that no one had gotten on the lift without skiis.

So, I had unwittingly "borrowed" someone's rental skis that just happened to be Christy rentals that exactly fit my boots, took them to the top of the Timberline lift, skied back down, and then returned them where I had borrowed them.

We rode back up to the top and skied down to check at the hutch--the skis were still in the rack.

We returned to the top and skied back down to the hutch--the skis were gone--the guy never knew. I wonder what he would have said to me if he had found out that I was the one who stole his skis. I tried to find him, but I am not sure what I would have said.

Many have suggested that much of my life has unfolded this way. I unconsciously and luckily just happen to walk through walls with minimum injury. I lumber on and life is good.