THE BANJO AND THE STRADIVARIUS
It was the late 1980’s when we moved to a town with a small two-year community college. It was a much larger town than where I was born. I had spent the past 34 years of my life with very limited exposure to cultural diversity. Lack of exposure does not equal lack of appreciation or ignorance. I was prepared to seize opportunities as I found them.
Wrapped within the isolation of the eastern KY mountains, I remembered my own teen years lying across my bed hearing the train whistles blowing in the distance. Back then, I longed to get a glimpse of the world outside. It was a world with possibilities I couldn’t even imagine, except for what I gleaned from reading books and watching television. As much as I wanted to see the world for myself, I also wanted my children, now in their teens, to see and experience it firsthand. I wasn’t going to miss an opportunity to open windows for them to see the world, and to walk through doors to experience it with them if I could.
My first exposure to the real world of classical music came when I was only twelve.
A touring Russian violinist, David Rubinoff, performed for our two-roomed Catholic school in Jenkins, KY. It was to be a short sampling of his full performance that evening at our local high school auditorium. Convincing my mother to allow me to go to a night performance in early February was out of the question. She didn’t drive and dad worked evening shifts.
I remember my excitement when Mr. Rubinoff was introduced to our class. I had a sense that this was a rare once-in-a-lifetime opportunity to hear a special and talented musician. Until then, I had only heard the private family performances by my dad, a self-taught musician on his inexpensive and unsophisticated 5-string banjo with hide-skin head.
Mr. Rubinoff, dressed formally in a matching two-piece charcoal gray suit with matching tie and a crisp white shirt, had been a child prodigy. He had convinced his parents to buy him a violin when he was only 5. I had never seen a classical instrument, much less a Romanoff Stradivarius violin. I understood how special that instrument was when I learned it was made in Italy in the early 1700’s. It was insured for $100,000 back in 1964 but is worth millions now. As untrained as my ears were to the beauty of classical violin music, I remember sitting quietly, mesmerized by the richness and purity of the sound, even in a classroom with poor acoustics. I was struck by the tender way Mr. Rubinoff caressed his violin as he drew the bow across the strings. There was no jig, foot patting, no vocal accompaniments. His performance was all about the love of the violin and the music. The music resonated sweetly in my ears, evoking a sense of calm and peace. I had never seen this kind of passion for music.
In contrast, my Daddy’s performance attire was a pair of faded jeans and a well-worn plaid, double pocket shirt with long sleeves. He was cold-natured and unless it was mid-summer and scorching hot weather, he always wore long sleeves. His shirts always had double pockets to accommodate his Prince Alfred tobacco, crooked stem pipe and eyeglasses.
Instead of a bow, he played with his thumb and right hand, clawhammer style, strumming downward. Often, he would dance a jig to particularly lively tunes as he serenaded us with traditional Bluegrass music. His stage was usually our kitchen floor. We were his only audience, but seated with the same attentiveness and often patting our feet in tune with the rhythm. I cherished the rare occasions when dad was in the mood to pick up his banjo and perform. My favorite Bluegrass song he played, sang and danced his jig to was one called “Groundhog.” The memorable lyrics to his reindition: “Yonder comes Sal with a snicker and a grin. Yonder comes Sal with a snicker and a grin. Whistlepig grease all over her chin. Ground-hog.”
As much as I loved to hear my daddy play his banjo, nothing I ever heard from daddy’s banjo could compare with the beauty of the sound or that violin. The printed flier distributed to our class that day is still a cherished keepsake, safely tucked away in my memory chest