Monticello FL
My father was a musician. He started playing the horn in high school. Back in the early 1930s, it was unheard of for a “farm-track” kid to play an instrument, but then, my dad never did anything the easy way. For example, half-way through his junior year, he decided he wanted to go to college. Apparently, he had to study really hard to get all the classes he needed to switch to the “college-track.”
He often told me the story about his first experience with Disney’s Fantasia (http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Fantasia_%28film%29), in 1940. He went all the way from Williamsport, Pennsylvania to New York City to see the movie. He marveled at the twenty-some speakers (it was actually more than 30) that had been arranged around the theater to achieve the intended sound.
As a youth, he liked to listen to classical performances on the radio, following along with the full score.
From the time I was born, until I was too big to fit in his lap, he would rock me and sing to me every night before tucking me in to bed. He usually chose folk songs, but sometimes morphed into jazz, opera, or classical (The Messiah at Christmas and St. Mathew’s Passion at Easter). When I started talking, he stopped singing the “dirty” songs. He often told me the only good songs were ones tackling the issues of adultery, murder, and lost love. He never took a shine to country music. I could never figure that one out. I think he didn’t like the twang.
On weekends, there was usually a party at our house or that of a friend. All were musicians and the joint would rock with the sounds of banjos, mandolins, and fiddles. Somewhere along the line, I took up spoons, and once made a gut bucket.
My father did not encourage my love of folk music. He arranged for me to start classical piano lessons when I was in the third or fourth grade. These continued for six or seven years. It was torture. He liked to play part of a score on the hi-fi and expect me to name it. He was disappointed that I lacked both talent and desire. I have to admit though, the ability to read music (including his infamous scores for multiple instruments) and transpose on the spot have come in handy over the years.
I had always wanted to play the dulcimer. Since I knew no one, until I got to high school, who played one, I’m not sure where this desire came from. But, there it was.
When Kelly and I were at the Plant City Strawberry Festival, I met a man from North Carolina who made dulcimers. Mr. Larry Dodson winters in Tallahassee and works, as part of a mountain arts group, during the summers in Gatlinburg, Tennessee. The dulcimers in his stall were so pretty and had such sweet tones. I knew I couldn’t afford one, but I really wanted one. So, we haggled a bit on price and he agreed to make me one.
Now you know why we’ve been hanging around the Tallahassee area. It takes time to build an instrument from scratch.
Today I picked up my dulcimer. It is beautiful and has a sweet tone. The purchase is so far out of our budget, but Kelly says this is part of being retired. She’s right. I intentionally closed some doors in my life so I could see what doors might open. Here’s an open door.
My father was a musician. He started playing the horn in high school. Back in the early 1930s, it was unheard of for a “farm-track” kid to play an instrument, but then, my dad never did anything the easy way. For example, half-way through his junior year, he decided he wanted to go to college. Apparently, he had to study really hard to get all the classes he needed to switch to the “college-track.”
He often told me the story about his first experience with Disney’s Fantasia (http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Fantasia_%28film%29), in 1940. He went all the way from Williamsport, Pennsylvania to New York City to see the movie. He marveled at the twenty-some speakers (it was actually more than 30) that had been arranged around the theater to achieve the intended sound.
As a youth, he liked to listen to classical performances on the radio, following along with the full score.
From the time I was born, until I was too big to fit in his lap, he would rock me and sing to me every night before tucking me in to bed. He usually chose folk songs, but sometimes morphed into jazz, opera, or classical (The Messiah at Christmas and St. Mathew’s Passion at Easter). When I started talking, he stopped singing the “dirty” songs. He often told me the only good songs were ones tackling the issues of adultery, murder, and lost love. He never took a shine to country music. I could never figure that one out. I think he didn’t like the twang.
On weekends, there was usually a party at our house or that of a friend. All were musicians and the joint would rock with the sounds of banjos, mandolins, and fiddles. Somewhere along the line, I took up spoons, and once made a gut bucket.
My father did not encourage my love of folk music. He arranged for me to start classical piano lessons when I was in the third or fourth grade. These continued for six or seven years. It was torture. He liked to play part of a score on the hi-fi and expect me to name it. He was disappointed that I lacked both talent and desire. I have to admit though, the ability to read music (including his infamous scores for multiple instruments) and transpose on the spot have come in handy over the years.
I had always wanted to play the dulcimer. Since I knew no one, until I got to high school, who played one, I’m not sure where this desire came from. But, there it was.
When Kelly and I were at the Plant City Strawberry Festival, I met a man from North Carolina who made dulcimers. Mr. Larry Dodson winters in Tallahassee and works, as part of a mountain arts group, during the summers in Gatlinburg, Tennessee. The dulcimers in his stall were so pretty and had such sweet tones. I knew I couldn’t afford one, but I really wanted one. So, we haggled a bit on price and he agreed to make me one.
Now you know why we’ve been hanging around the Tallahassee area. It takes time to build an instrument from scratch.
Today I picked up my dulcimer. It is beautiful and has a sweet tone. The purchase is so far out of our budget, but Kelly says this is part of being retired. She’s right. I intentionally closed some doors in my life so I could see what doors might open. Here’s an open door.
