Adoption of the Craft
He had himself a small guitar- not a ukulele, but a small guitar.
Legend has it that he killed a man, years and years ago in the Alpine Foothills, a murder of a young traveler, who had reached for his instrument, and scoffed with the cynical expression that “people only play ukuleles because they want to look artistic.”
A stare down ensued, both men scowling in the chilly afternoon, at each other, and to the heavens. Cursing the creation of such disgusting people as an artsy ukulele player, and a young ignorant traveler, stubborn in his beliefs.
The punishment for ignorance was to be death.
And the children speak of a man who worshipped his guitar, and carried it with him wherever he went.
His name was Lucan, and he was the oldest of four boys, each named for poets. His parents were strict, poetry loving, good people, who treasured his education, and did not care particularly for music. In fact, they decidedly disliked it. Lucan, however, loved the sound of classical guitar, and lamented the fact that he was forbidden from even touching such an instrument. The devil’s work, his parents decided, designed only to distract him from his math sums and historical studies. In his free time, he snuck away to the market stalls where he knew the musicians would play. He had been eying the fated mini guitar for weeks now, owned by a protective old man, who would accept nothing but the exact price he proposed- he could not be negotiated with. And as soon as Lucan had raised enough money from mowing lawns and the like, he finally purchased the guitar, beaming, and the old man smiled, and told him to treat it well. Lucan assured him that he would. Keeping a lookout, cautiously, he made his way back home, and it was only when he opened the door that there were complications to his plan. Now, this was love at first sight, Lucan and his guitar that he had affectionately named Marina, and he had been plucking at the strings all the way home. Opening the door, he was met face to face with his three brothers, standing side by side, and demanding to know where he had been, and where he had gotten the forbidden miniature guitar. The second youngest brother, Virgil, reached for it, and stroking the side said quietly, “I won’t tell Mom and Dad.”
Relieved, Lucan tried to get around the impenetrable wall of brothers.
“If,” he concluded, “you do all of my chores for the next two weeks.”
“Go to hell, Virgil.”
“And take Dante with you,” added Horace, who was the second oldest. The youngest, Dante, was hurt, and he looked up at his brother Horace wide eyed and angry.
Lucan took the opportunity to escape literary jokes whenever he could, and this was one such occasion. So, slipping around Dante, who was still upset at being told to go to hell, he retreated to his bedroom.
“That was the wrong decision, Lucan!” Called Virgil, and Lucan hid his guitar under his bed.
Unfortunately for Virgil, he had a habit of making up stories, so his parents didn’t believe him when he tried to rat out his brother. And so, the guitar, Marina, stayed under Lucan’s bed, and soon, he learned to play it.