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  • Writer's pictureDesiree Aguirre

The Gift of the Mandolin


My friend Drew 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, like his will, which was long and detailed. He planned to give his electric sliding guitar to Truck Mills, a fellow Sandpoint musician.

"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, Niko, 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 tacos 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.

Attempting to find meaning in my son’s death, I had decided to act with bravery, and asked Tea for the 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. That summer, I took lessons from Doug Bond. He taught me how to tune it, how to hold the pick and how to strum a few chords. I poured my grief into that instrument, 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 chords 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" by the end of summer.

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

When my friend Greg called and asked me to come to his house 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, and my vow to act with courage for Nik, put my fear on the shelf, grabbed my mandolin and drove to Greg'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 in high school, I had never played with a group of instrumentalists. But the 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.

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

Turned out that one of the members, Steve Weill, 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. After he adjusted it, it was easier to play. However, it did 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 a cool evening breeze with a promise to master "You Are My Sunshine" for the following week. I felt as though 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'd been given a new start and a fresh outlook on life.

That was the beginning of my musical adventures. Eventually, I bought that fabulous mandolin from Steve, and with new confidence and musical friends guiding me, started putting my words to music.

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