APRIL 1, 2023 – My grandpa Nilsson, a violinist, launched my three sisters on their own careers as violinists. He and they were in perfect synch: he was a serious teacher, and they were serious students. In my case, he practically stood on his head trying first to get me to practice, and when that didn’t work, to convince me I shouldn’t quit the violin altogether. He tried every approach he could think of, including stories that combined his violin playing with his experiences as an American soldier in France during World War I.
Today, two of his stories resonated with me and blossomed in a beautifully conjunctive manner, filled with meaning and purpose.
The first involved Grandpa’s induction into the army in 1917, the year the United States joined the Great War. At the time he was making his living playing in pit orchestras for silent movies featured in the grand old theaters along Hennepin Avenue in downtown Minneapolis. When Grandpa moved slowly in the queue at the army induction center, he was informed that the inductees were assigned to units based on their work in civilian life. A laborer would be sent straight off into the infantry; office workers often got desk jobs. Grandpa worried about what use the army would have for a violinist. When he answered the gruff sergeant’s “work” question with, “violinist,” the sergeant handed him a bugle and said, “Here. You’re gonna be the bugler.”
Grandpa had never played a bugle in his life, but if a bugle wasn’t a stringed instrument, at least it was a musical instrument, and he appreciated the officer’s implicit acknowledgment of that relationship between a violin and a bugle.
The guy immediately ahead of Grandpa in the induction queue was not as lucky. He was a chemist, and the sergeant assigned him to the tank corps, where he’d wind up either driving a tank or manning its cannon. The poor guy was stunned—as was Grandpa, who, being next up, worried that as a violinist, he’d be turned into a machine gunner or some similarly frightful role.
Fast forward to an encounter I had last week in our own neighborhood. In recent weeks, I’d noticed an older gentleman out on daily walks up and down our street and nearby cross streets that are on my own daily route to and from “Little Switzerland.” We’d always exchange greetings, and the smile under his visor cap was so warm and friendly, I couldn’t help but reciprocate. We each walked too briskly to stop, however, so our encounters were always limited to a smile and “Hello.” But eventually our mutual curiosity got the better of us, and one day, we did stop to introduce ourselves.
I’d guessed correctly that behind the gentleman’s smile and intelligent eyes was a sunny disposition coupled with a ready wit. In short order we discovered we had many common interests and shared very similar worldviews. His name is Fred, and we now stop and talk whenever we encounter each other out on the street. In the course of each conversation, I learn new and fascinating things about Fred’s life story. (Not to mention I discovered he walks eight to nine miles a day!)
Two facets of his background reminded me of Grandpa’s story of the chemist who was assigned to the tank corps. Fred, it turns out, is a retired chemist, but before he went to college to study chemistry, he’d joined the National Guard. His company’s specialty was transport, and part of his training involved learning how to drive . . . a tank!
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© 2023 by Eric Nilsson
