Sunday, August 28, 2011

When I was very very young, I don't know how old exactly, Grandmom took us to some kind of Fair, or Festival, or some such thing and I got my first taste of the violin. There was a troupe there of singer/dancer/violinists who sang and danced and played all together, all at the same time and it blew. my. mind. I have never forgotten that concert and at that moment I decided I HAD to play that instrument.

Grandmom promised me that one day she would give me one of her violins. One day, when I was old enough, and good enough, she'd let me choose one. She caught me leaving my case upside down a few times and would shake her head and predict that I'd never earn that violin. But one day, one Christmas, I believe, I had finally done it-- earned that violin-- despite my careless ways. She took me up to the spare room and pulled out three cases. They were in pretty bad disrepair, but the one that caught my eye had a story that would have intrigued anyone.

According to her, she caught the eye of an old German dude when she was in her teens. He had a luthier's workshop in a cave somewhere in the hills. He made her a violin as a gift.


I have no idea if that story is really accurate, or not. Embellishment in the name of a good story is a family trait. But who cares? As far as I'm concerned, my violin was made in a cave in the PA hills by an old German dude who had a crush on my grandmother.

What more could you want?

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