The Mandolin

Drew suffered from mental illness and had difficulties getting out on his own. He was an incredible artist and musician who could no longer create art or listen to music. It was my job to take him on walks to get him out of the house.

A little obsessive compulsive, his room was orderly and neat, and his will, long and detailed. He planned to give his electric sliding guitar to Truck, a local musician he used to play with in Sandpoint.

“What about me?” I asked him with an impish grin. “Can I have one of your guitars?”

He walked to his desk and put the statue of Buddha I had just moved back in its previous spot. He glanced at me, wringing his hands.

“My nephews play. I want to give them my guitars. How about the mandolin?”

“I’ve always wanted to play mandolin,” I said.

That spring, my son, Nik, died in a car accident. Drew sobbed that it should have been him. I said, “Dying is easy, Drew, but sometimes life is very hard.”

We always took the same route when we walked, and the day Drew left us, we went off the beaten track and treated ourselves to fish taco’s at Joel’s, one of our favorite restaurants. Later, his sister, Tea, told me she was glad I spent the afternoon with him, and that we had a nice lunch together. I was the last person to see him alive.

Drew left me with a hole in my heart and no one to walk with, plus he forgot to put me in his will. I missed the sound of his voice; I longed for his mandolin.

Tea and her sons discussed the matter and agreed that I should have the mandolin; I had to promise to learn how to play it and never sell or give it away. I took lessons from Doug that summer. He taught me how to tune it, hold the pick, and strum a few cords. I poured my grief into that thing, and when I played, it felt like I had wings and could survive another day.

Still, the mandolin does not come easy to me. The cords require six long, strong and graceful fingers. I have five short and stubby digits that lack coordination and grit. I have a good ear, a nice voice and plenty of enthusiasm. I managed to master three songs, “Joy” by Bach, “Amazing Grace,” and “Losing My Religion.”

The flowers faded in fall and I went back to school. I put the mandolin away for a year and a half, and this winter break, I grew bored with books and DVD’s and picked it back up.

When Greg called me and asked me to come to his house in Sagle for a jamming session, my fingers felt strong and I said, “sure.” When Tuesday rolled around, I grew afraid and was tempted to not bring my instrument. I reminded myself of my promise to Tea and her boys, put my fear on the shelf, grabbed my mandolin and drove to Gregg’s house.

I was way out of my league. Four fabulous guitarists and one shining mandolin player arrived and began to make music. Although I sang in Madrigals, the best choir group in high school, I had never played with a group of instrumentalists, and my high school days are well behind me (I’m headed for 51). But my mandolin was in tune, and I had mastered the easy d, cheating G and C, and a funky F. I even kept up on a couple of the songs.

Every one brought one song to play (accept me), and the rest joined in with an ease that astonished and delighted. Most of the group has been playing sense they were kids, and they all show each other different chord progressions and licks. The biggest problem seemed to be remembering the words to the songs.

Turns out that one of the members, Steve, makes mandolins and guitars. His wife was playing one of his mandolins, and before I left, he handed me one of his creations. I picked out Bach’s tune with little effort and was amazed at the quality of the sound and the way it felt in my hands.

“This is way easier to play than my mandolin,” I said.

He looked at my instrument and showed me how to adjust the bridge. It’s easier to play now, but still does not match the sound of his hand made mandolin.

“When I’m a rich and famous writer, I’m going to buy that mandolin,” I said.

Steve shook my hand, smiled, and said, “I look forward to that day.”

I floated home on cloud nine with a promise to master “You Are My Sunshine” for next week. I have the cords and the words and plan on practicing every day. I felt like I had been given the best birthday present ever, like I too could fly with the eagles. Sure, I had a late start, and might sound like a dog baying at the moon when I play. But I’ve been given a new beginning, and the slick mud and the snow the color of midnight did not crush my mood.

I got home, threw some hay to the horses, came inside, and practiced the song. I’ll be ready next week.