My Uncle Morty insisted that the ukulele was invented by
Jews in Eastern Europe.
I am sure the Hawaiians would be thrilled to hear it.
He said they called it a volfshreken…something
that would scare a wolf away. He
had a beautiful one too, inlaid with mother of pearl, and made by his own
grandfather Velvel. I can just
imagine him in the forest playing some Yiddish tune on it as the wolves at bay
exchange frowns and paw the ground under the first snow.
But apparently I was missing the point.
It was a year, my uncle began, in which Velvel was sick and
the wolf was howling at the door.
This was not death calling exactly, maybe it was, but more likely the
despair that can kill the spirit just as swiftly. The sound was driving everyone crazy, especially Velvel
himself trying to find inner peace as he felt that some sort of end was
near. It soon became clear that he
needed something to mask the sound or he would lose his mind before his
life. He tried towels around the
head, potato plugs in the ears, stomping of the boots endlessly but nothing
worked.
Velvel was a carpenter who had built many homes in the
village but he was too weak or distracted to work, even though that may well
have helped. Instead he gathered
his tools around him and some planks of poplar and bits of spruce, strings from
an old piano, mother of pearl from a broken table. With these in hand, Velvel began to construct.
His wife, Adir, was surprised that he even had the energy or
will to do it; his son Hershe wondered what he was up to but said
nothing. Velvel was a stubborn
man, a careful man, and all day long and well into the night – when sounds echo
so chillingly – he kept at it.
He carved the body first, then bent the soaked wood that
would form the side over the fire.
He cut the neck and carved grooves in it for the nails that would lay
sideways across the surface.
Bridge, tuning pegs, piece by piece and one by one he made them
all. He had never made, never even
touched, an instrument before but there and then this did not seem to matter in
the least, nor did it stop him. When he was ready to attach the strings he could barely hear the sound
they made for the howling of the wolf at the door. The time was near, he knew, and he quickened his pace.
How did he know what he was doing? I asked my uncle. I was a boy when he told me this and
never thought to question the truth of the tale. I wanted to believe then, and maybe even now too, that it
was possible. That some old coot
sitting in a cottage in the middle of nowhere could make an instrument that
might defeat that dismal shriek you hear just beyond the voice of reason. I don't know how he knew, my uncle said, do you?
When he was done and the wolf had reached its moon-high
pitch, Velvel took the uke in his hands and began to play and sing. Cautiously at first, then daringly, and
soon confidently. As though he had
played before in some other world.
What did he play? I asked my uncle. What do you think? he asked me back. No doubt it was some old folk tune but
I was only nine and I was certain that it was Jailhouse Rock.
And there he sits then, with the wolf suddenly perturbed and
annoyed, singing rock and roll on his hand-made ukulele which is nothing more
than a license to be heard, like the ticking clock that the Tin Man gets to
acknowledge the heart that he already has. In that heightened space, removed from the kind of time that
fits and stalls, he inhabits a rhythmic plane that can leave sorrow out of
reach, beyond the echo.
When I was older, my uncle gave me that very ukulele. I still have it. It is a gift beyond compare. Gifts are not called presents by
accident; they are about the promise of the moment and that is no small thing
to believe in. Music puts you
there. Like love or compassion or
laughter, music is something worth living for. You simply have to find the songs that sound like life to
you. We all have them and they
make music a reason to go on, which is why we make it even in the least of
places, even in the worst of times.
I cannot tell you whether Velvel’s singing and playing
sounded like crooning or howling.
No matter. I know it was
his way of living again. I have
tried it myself and it works even if only for the moment.
The song fills the air.
The wolf whimpers.
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