I was helping Mom clean out the attic one afternoon when I found it—a classic mandolin from the 1930’s.
“It belonged to your father,” Mom said when she saw the questioning look on my face. “He took a few lessons, but then the war broke out. When he came home, we had a young family and there was just never any time for it. I guess he put it up here and forgot about it. To tell you the truth, I forgot all about it as well. It probably hasn’t been played in over fifty years.”
I plunked out a few notes. It didn’t sound too bad for having strings that were older than I was. With some new strings, it would sound fantastic.
I stared at the mandolin. I couldn’t imagine my father having an interest in music—and he’d always seemed ambivalent about my guitar playing. I’d heard Dad sing “Happy Birthday” nearly forty times, and his off-key caterwauling convinced me he didn’t have a musical bone in his body.
“I’m sure he would have wanted you to have it,” Mom said. “I know he never said much about it, but he always liked your music.”
On the way home that evening, I stopped at the music store to pick up a set of Dean Markleys. I also signed up for mandolin lessons. I figure it’s never too late to make Dad proud.
Dean Markley mandolin strings… power, punch, and heavenly tone.