MARCH 26, 2026 – This morning Beth and I were up and at ’em[1] before broadening daylight revealed how drab the sky remained after last night’s rain. Beth was scheduled to catch a morning flight from MSP to BDL (Hartford, CT) to visit our New English grandchildren—and their parents. As usual, she was well organized for the journey. We left the house with ample time to account for any snafus associated with TSA (there were no delays at MSP). Just before 8:00 I bade Beth bon voyage at curbside – Terminal 1 and returned straight to the house for breakfast and a cup of java before getting down to legal biz.
After a productive day in my little sub-world, I picked up Illiana at school. Until her dad got off work, she’d be an artist in residence at our house. “But first,” I said, “what do you think about going for some kind of treat? On a raw, overcast day like today, don’t you think we deserve a modest degree of self-indulgence?”
“Yeah. How ‘bout ice cream?”
“Ice cream? That’s not what I have in mind when the wind is blowing from the north and the temperature is in the 40s.”
“It’s not that cold out,” she said, like a true and tried Minnesota kid.
“Okay, fine. If you want ice cream, we can go to Sprinkles [a converted DQ on the way home], but my choice would be a donut or a muffin.”
“There’s no reason why we can’t do both ice cream for me and something else for you, Grandpa,” she said, revealing her characteristic generosity of care for the needs of others.
We wound up getting a Dunkin’ toasted coconut donut for me and a mint chocolate-chip cone at DQ for the fourth grader. I couldn’t decide which was more outrageous: four bucks for the donut or four bucks for the small cone, but I rationalized that our conversation spawned by the double-splurge was priceless.
We covered a range of topics, but the most memorable arose in an out-of-the-blue question. “Grandpa,” Illiana asked, “what’s the different between Catholic and all the other churches?”
To collect my thoughts about the Reformation, I had to slow down enough to have to stop for a couple of very long red lights. I wound up taking a circular route back to Rome, the Vatican and eventually, the convenient off-ramp in the form of the Vatican Museum. “That’s where you’ll find some of the greatest art treasures on the planet,” I said. “Works by Da Vinci, Michelangelo and other masters of the Renaissance.”
“And Monet?”
“No, he was a French Impressionist. He came along much later—second half of the 19th century and into the 20th century,[2]” I said. “He was a French Impressionist.”
“If I went to church,” Illiana asked, back on the religious track, “where would I go?”
“That’s an interesting question, Illiana, with a very wide range of possible answers.” Her inquiry reminded me of the question her dad had asked me—the teacher of his Sunday school class—when he was exactly her age (and the materials had us reading/discussing the creation story in Genesis): “Dad, who created God?”
Just as I’d punted Illiana’s question, so had I deflected her father’s question pin-pointed where religion intersects with quantum physics.[3]
Before long, we were back at the house. While I cut up some fresh strawberries, Illiana’s favorite snack at our house, she set herself up in her drawing niche and went to town giving form to characters that occupy her imagination. As I watched her work, an idea popped into my head. Why not accompany her endeavor with a little violin music—Eine Kleine Violine Musik? I retrieved my fiddle and worked over my usual scale and arpeggio warm-up routine. I then entered the living room where she was working and asked if she’d like to hear a little Bach.
“Sure,” she said, giving me the correct answer. “Is that something I’ve heard in the car?” Her question was a reference to my habit of playing classical music when it’s just the two of us driving to and from school or between our house and hers.
“Probably,” I said. “He wrote a ton of music.”
On the music rack of the piano, I set a Double from Bach’s set of unaccompanied partitas and sonatas. The lighting wasn’t great and I’d forgotten to remove my glasses, which interfere with my reading music, but I have the piece down well enough that the sheet music serves more as highway striping and guardrails than as essential notation by which to navigate. Nevertheless, these circumstances required me to assume an awkward playing posture. Then, without warning, my shoulder rest slipped. Clinging to the instrument by my chinny-chin chin, I had to spill a bunch of notes in favor of hanging on to the violin. The blow-out occurred so unexpectedly, I didn’t even have time to signal my emergency stop.
“What happened?” Illiana asked.
“A surprise equipment failure,” I said. After snapping the shoulder rest back in place, I finished the piece.
“I liked that,” said Illiana.
“Really?” My response was more out of delight than surprise. I don’t think Illiana is exposed to classical music (my go-to genre) outside of the occasions I provide it, but I like to assume that the cumulative effect of what she does hear will carry forth in her life.
I then asked if I could play one more piece—as short as the Bach; namely the Dvořák that I announced as “the piece I’ll be playing at my college reunion in May.” She answered with another “sure.”
This time the shoulder rest stayed on the violin (as it does 99.999% of my playing time, at least when I’m not standing on my head to see the music). The piece was rendered as well as I’m capable of performing it. When I finished, Illiana rewarded me with a spontaneous positive reaction. “Wow,” she said. “I really liked that.”
With something as delicate as gourmet food or its counterparts in classical music, when attempting to influence a child’s tastes, you can’t stuff things down the throat. I learned this the hard way from my parents, though who’s to know that but for their intense devotion to classical music—and equally intense desire for me to develop that same level of appreciation—I never would’ve discovered it on my own.
In any event, without fiddling around any further, I put the violin away and let Illiana return to her drawing. Her intensity inspired me to get underway with this post—while a recording of Schubert’s fourth symphony colored the background to our quiet pursuits.
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© 2026 by Eric Nilsson
[1] This marks the first time in my entire life (so far) that I’ve used this idiom in writing. Whenever I’ve heard or spoken it, I’ve thought of it as, “up and Adam,” never stopping to consider how non-sensical the “and Adam” part was. Not until now when I had to spell it out did I realize the phrase was “up and at ’em.”
[2]He died a smidgeon less than 100 years ago.
[3] “Great question, Cory!” I’d said. “We don’t have time to go into that now, but hang in there. I’m pretty sure they cover it in seventh grade.” Had it been baseball season and I’d been quicker on the draw, I might’ve thrown him a curveball and said, “The answer is . . . the Big Bang.”
