Hey, all. As you may have surmised from an earlier post, I found an amazing violin for cheap at the local flea market last month. It had issues that needed the attention of a luthier, and I didn’t have the tools, skills, or know-how to repair it. It would have easily cost several hundred dollars to have its issues addressed.

I wanted to learn how to fix a violin but didn’t want to start on that del Gésu clone. It was just way too nice. But I had an idea. What if I found an obviously broken, but repairable, cheaper instrument on eBay or something? An instrument made of quality materials with potential? I roped in my resident eBay expert and asked her to find me something good, but cheap.

Within ten minutes, she had a great candidate, an early 20th-century Strad clone. A run-of-the-mill fiddle, nothing special, with an obvious large crack. It was listed as 75 bucks and 25 shipping. I looked as hard as possible at the provided images and asked her to buy it. It seemed doable, and I wouldn’t cry if I messed it up.

My learner fiddle showed up a few days later, and I unboxed it. I sighed. Lemme tell you, there is no substitute for handling something used that you want to buy. Yes, it did have the large crack I was looking for to gain experience. It also had a crooked and glued-in-place end button, a thick coat of varnish complete with runs, a terrible fingerboard, many smaller cracks not visible on the online auction images, the list went on.

I would have passed if I had found this at a flea market table. Too much work! But as it was, I was committed and re-learned the lesson about bidding on a “deal.” So, I started the process.

The first thing you do with one of these is to strip the old furniture. By “furniture,” I mean easily removable items such as the chinrest, the pegs, and the tailpiece. A lot of times, this stuff is total junk. Worn out by a lifetime of playing and unsalvageable. That was pretty much the case here. Also, you can see the dead obvious crack and an earlier repair. This violin was a good candidate. It was time to get to work.

I watched a bunch of YouTube, a luthier named Olaf in particular. The man is a genius. You can easily find his stuff posted there. Funny and informative.

The first step was to remove the top plate- this is why you NEVER use wood glue on an instrument. Traditional hide glue will release when moistened or pressed. Modern wood glue will not. Fortunately, the last person who had this apart used the correct glue, and with some missteps and patience, I could work a butter knife around the edge to remove the plate.

This is what I saw on the inside.

The interior of the violin was filthy, of course, and worse yet the varnish applied during its previous “restoration” had run in thick streams through the f holes and into the interior of the violin. I’m sure that did wonders for the tone. Also, I could clearly see that the end button was crooked as hell and glued in place. End buttons should never be glued in place. In addition, I don’t know what the hell that thing is where a proper bass bar should be, but I knew right away I would have to fabricate a new bass bar.

This would surely add days to the project. I was right because it did.

After the assessment, it was time to start the repairs. The first step was to stabilize the major cracks. You do this by gluing them and applying special luthier’s clamps. Observe.

The clamps, which are violin specific, worked like a charm. The cracks pulled together nicely, and I walked away as the glue dried. You’d think this would be the end of it, but it’s not.

On the inner side of the plate, you must install a series of wooden gussets. Luthiers call them cleats. They are made of spruce, and they look like thin section pyramids with blunt noses. You glue them along the line of the crack to reinforce the split. I made and installed sixteen of them on this much-abused antique. Check it out.

Each crack gets at least one cleat unless it’s an edge crack that doesn’t extend past the purfling. Those can be fixed by just working some glue into them and clamping them tight.

The repairs took a long time, but I got them done. It was time to move on to the dreaded bass bar. Boy, did that suck.

A slowdown on the project has been waiting on parts and sourcing the right stuff. One such thing was getting properly sized, good-quality spruce stock for the cleats and the bass bar. You can’t use the crap you find at the hardware store. Balsa wood, pine, or poplar don’t cut it. You must use spruce- and for the bass bar, you must use tight-grained spruce. Real luthiers use the same wood they fashioned the top plate from for optimum tone, but obviously, that wasn’t a consideration here, so I did what I could.

How do you make a bass bar? It turns out that there are a million possibilities. I ended up settling for a standard design that a German fellow helpfully posted on the internet, plus I tore apart the del Gésu to see what an actual bass bar looked like. See below.

This is what a quality bass bar and unmolested top plate looks like. By the way, I took the time to blow the del Gésu apart and repair it between working on the eBay fiddle. I gained confidence from Project 001. Therefore I figured I could handle the nice violin. Plus, I needed to see a real bass bar. But I digress.

There are formulas that you use for the length (7/9 the body length) as well as the angle of the bar. It’s hard to see, but the bar is very slightly canted, with the end facing the top block being closer to the centerline of the instrument by a few millimeters. Also, there are standard heights along the bar that you should meet, with the tallest part of the bar being centered on the f-hole notches. The bar should be tapered, with the thinnest section under the bridge.

Told you there was a lot to it, more of an art than a science. I did my best.

But first, after the layout, the trim to length and width (6mm), and the measurement, the bar must be precisely fitted to the plate. See below.

This is where you start, with a hunk of wood cut to the proper length and sanded to the correct width. I must say that fitting the bar to the plate was by far the crappiest part and an experience I am loathe to repeat. Holy cow did this take forever.

I chalk-fit the bar- you lay down chalk dust on the plate and rub the bar back and forth. Where it touches, you trim it carefully with a razor knife. Rinse, wash, repeat. You do this endlessly until the bar fits completely flush with the plate. And yes, you have to ensure that the bar is at a 90-degree angle to the flat plane of the plate, which is curved where the bar touches. See below.

This is a little past halfway through the process. I had a pile of wood shavings at my feet. But at last, victory. It was time to brush off the dust and glue.

Looks pretty simple, but it’s not. Lord, was this a pain to clamp down. And by the way, you must not warp the plate! I glued it, then walked away.

In the meantime, I had to deal with that lousy fingerboard. Once again, YouTube. Turns out that if you mess around with the butter knife, it’ll pop right off, leaving cruddy glue clumps and shards of wood behind. These need to be removed without marring the fingerboard base on the neck- it’s a precision fit. See below.

You can get the old crud from the neck by molding a damp paper towel to the fingerboard seat. Wait ten minutes, then scrape the crud off with an old credit card. Do this over and over until the seat is clean.

The bass bar dried, then it was time to shape it vertically and horizontally. I did this with an exacto knife and sandpaper until I got the desired shape and height.

See below.

It might not be awesome, but it sure beats where this fiddle started.

What the hell is this thing? It’s wrong in so many ways, I won’t even start. Wrong height, wrong length, wrong shape, wrong flippin’ everything! So maybe my attempt isn’t totally amazing, but it has to beat THAT, right?

I also had to trim the cross-section. The bass bar is thinnest right beneath the bridge, about 2mm, then it flares on both ends to 4mm, as well as tapering to the base of the bar. A bit of a tall order for an idiot with a razor knife and sandpaper, but I gave it a shot. See cross-section below.

At last, the repairs and the fabrication and installation of the bass bar were complete. It was time to reassemble.

I’ve been sweating this for a while. I wondered if I’d have enough time to clamp the fiddle, hide glue dries fast. I wondered if I would screw up aligning the plate. It’s possible. Hell, I even worried about the amount of glue I should use. Don’t wanna be sloppy, right? I thought it over, and then early this morning, I said “hold onto my beer and watch this,” and I just did it.

First, and this was a valuable lesson learned from other projects, I rehearsed how I wanted to clamp the violin. This was helpful and allowed me to work quickly during the glue set. It was time.

I laid down a decent bead with my finger, then I settled the plate into place, carefully checking the alignment. I clamped the corner blocks first, then worked my way up to the top block. Then I did the other side. Once the violin’s top was secure, I did the bottom, ending with the bottom block. Once all clamps were set, I wiped off any excess glue with my fingertip.

It was finally glued back together.

Behold.

I know, it’s a lot of clamps. I thought I had too many, but I could have used a few more. But this works. I walked away. The glue needs to totally dry before I release the clamps.

Tomorrow, I’ll deal with this. See below.

Finish blemishes galore. Yippee!

This will take a while…

Stay tuned.

Hey, everybody. Yeah, I’ve been a little quiet around here as of late, there’s been a lot going on. People coming and going from vacations, hobbying, writing.

Thought to speak to the latter first.

Work has begun on my new alien invasion series, code named INVASION1. The first chapters are out behind my paywall on Patreon. I plan on this being a trilogy, a story of a world gone mad because some interstellar visitors drop by and give the human race a hard time. Not because they want somethng from us, because they don’t, but because we are in the way of their incomprehensible pursuits.

Also, as you may know, my latest complete trilogy is out on Amazon. The Ohio Rifles series has been a bit of a success story, I’m pleased with how it’s been received. If you haven’t had the chance to check it out, simply follow the link above.

I wanted to do a First World War era alt-history for a long time, and Rifles was my stab at it. Dunno. I have an idea that when you write fiction, you should at least attempt to tread the path less taken. Maybe to look at things differently than others. With Rifles, I think this happened. What can I say? The results speak for themselves. It sells, and peeps seem to like what they’re buying.

This is good.

However, I’m not resting on my laurels. My plan is for the next book in the Storyteller series to launch in August, followed by the opener for the alien invasion thing around Christmas. Four titles this year- this is my goal.

Around other stuff, I’ve also decided to have a crack at violin repair. I’ve discovered that this is a dark art, and I needed a not-too-terribly valuable instrument, but one with potential, to start with. Witness below, an eBay Strad copy, about a hundred years old with tons of problems.

Cracks galore, plenty of problems to learn from. So, I started the process with a butter knife, some glue, and chunks of wood. Here’s approximately where I’m at now with this thing.

I think I’ve done some five repairs on the top plate alone, with some 14 patches, or cleats, glued down. Also, I found that I had to fabricate a new bass bar, the old one was completely inadequate. See above. my next step is to shape what I made, then I’ll glue the thing back together. Of course, then it’s the question of how it will sound when played.

Good question.

When this project is finally over, I’ll do a longer post here as to what all went into the violin above. Trust me, it’s been a lot of work and a learning experience.

More later, but I thought to keep you all in the loop.

Hey, all. So, in between creating and launching books, I’ve taken a little time to lean into my violin hobby. Knowing that I have a knack for finding things, my instructor, Ryan, asked me to find a good violin for a student who needs a quality instrument but isn’t long on cash.

I was happy to oblige. I loaded up on Friday morning and cruised to the local flea market, hoping to find something. I usually do, but sometimes what I find isn’t worth having. This can be a shame; on my last visit, I found a good Strad clone for reasonable. However, someone had “repaired” it with wood glue and hadn’t done a very good job. It wasn’t worth the eighty dollars the seller was asking. If it hadn’t been “repaired,” eighty dollars would have been a steal. As it was, the value was close to zero.

By the way, never glue a violin back together with wood glue. It makes the instrument very difficult, if not impossible, to disassemble for maintenance. These things are designed to be taken apart for periodic repairs, and modern wood glue works too well- you won’t get it apart without ruining the instrument. The wood will break before the glued joint lets loose. This is undesirable.

If you must glue a loose spot on an instrument, spend a couple of bucks for proper, old-fashioned hide glue. But I digress.

I arrived and stepped out of my vehicle with some cash in my pocket. The junk man doesn’t do plastic. I prefer junk dealers, guys who tear shit down and could care less about what they sell. Or, fellas who frequent estate sales and want to turn a quick buck. Homeowners can be a pain, frequently they have an inflated idea of the value of their junk, or they have some emotional attachment to what they sell. So, I look for the junk man.

You can tell those dudes at a glance. They usually have some shitty vehicle and a very wide range of stuff, most of it old.

The “antique” dealers are usually not worth looking at. They’re there to rip off city people. The “theme” dealers aren’t worth looking at, either. They know damn well what their stuff is worth. No- I want the utter mercenaries who would gladly sell you something they got for nothing for a few twenties.

I walked about two minutes when I happened upon my first deal. A guy was selling an old, hand-stitched 48-star flag for twelve bucks. I’ve been looking for one of those for years. His price was twelve because he fully expected me to talk him to ten. Those are usually fifty, so I didn’t feel like haggling. It was a good deal. I put it into my backpack and kept walking.

Three minutes later, and bingo.

An obvious junk man, and an obviously old violin. Usually, the case is the tell. Typical early twentieth pressed-paper. What was inside, I wondered. I asked if I could open the case. He waved, “Sure!”

I opened it and saw the above. Horsehair everywhere, like usual, and a neglected instrument. It had real purfling, a tentative sign of quality manufacture. I looked closer and took it from the case. I flipped it to look at the belly.

YASSS. Excellent quality maple- this wasn’t a cheap instrument when new. I flipped it back over and looked at the tag inside.

Whoa- this was different. This violin was a del Gésu clone- an instrument made to the rough pattern of an old master by the name of Guarneri. Almost everyone is familiar with the Stradivarius violins, and no, a tag that says “Stradivarius” does not mean it’s a real Strad. Just put that out of your mind. You will never find one. Period.

Almost without exception, most old violins you find at flea markets are Strad clones. There’s nothing wrong with this- they are great violins if you pick the right one. So, finding a del Gésu pattern was unusual. My holy grail is finding an individual luthier violin, but it hasn’t happened yet and may never.

A quick note- the violins you find range from beginner stuff to professional grade. Beginner stuff is usually Chinese or older Japanese. Don’t bother with used. If you’re after this, go to Amazon and get a Cecilio. They aren’t great, but for a starter violin, they work, and the case and accessories are useful.

The flea markets are great for intermediate violins- this del Gésu clone was a fine example. Individual luthier violins are usually low professional grade, even high grade, but I’d have to have serious luck to find one of those. By “individual luthier” violin, I mean hand-made and proudly labeled as such by a master craftsman.

The violin I found was about a century old and it was hand-made, but probably by a team of craftsmen in a shop under the direction of a master. In contrast, the Cecilio violins are a total factory operation and they are CNC milled.

The del Gésu clone was what I was after, a serious upgrade for Ryan’s student. It was an advanced student violin.

It had a few small defects but nothing fatal. A couple of hairline cracks on the upper plate, whatever. Maybe a couple of hundred dollars in repairs (BTW, I may teach myself how to disassemble and repair these things. But I need a MUCH worse violin than this for my first repair project!). This one needed some new strings, maybe pegs, a new tail gut. Whatever. So, I asked the question.

“How much?”

“A hundred.”

“What’ll ya take?”

“Eighty-five.”

I said the hell with it and handed him ninety. I wouldn’t quibble over five bucks, and the violin was worth much more than that. I had a winner. I took it back to my truck and re-examined it, pleased by the deal. Of course, junk-man probably paid five for it, or got it for free, but so what? This was a win-win.

I left. I hadn’t been there more than ten minutes. Why stay longer when the mission was accomplished? It was an amazing day.

I cleaned up the case and dusted the instrument when I got home. Also, to my utter shock, I used one of the bows when I trimmed about half the rotten hairs from it. Put on some rosin and played! I’ve never seen that before- usually, the bows are ruined. Even the pressed paper case was nice- usually, they are JUNK. Not this one- I didn’t immediately chuck it in the trash, which is rare.

Not bad for a half-hour’s work, really.

Also, I laid the del Gésu out next to Rose the Strad, and you can see the clear difference in body shape, although the wood on both is nice. Both of these fiddles cost less than 100 in initial outlay! Sweet.

It was a very good day, and I can’t wait to see how this latest purchase shapes up- I estimate that this violin will probably cost about 500, total, to be completely ready and playable. A real deal, IMO.

Love me some flea markets.

Here we are, at another Memorial Day weekend. Long-time readers will know that I’ve struggled with these days for a long time. How do we, the living, properly honor our dead- our ancestors, our fallen?

Simply put, there is nothing we can do but remember.

I think the forgotten deserve this remembrance more than the mighty.

The image above is a simple mound in a nearby village, a relic of the indigenous Mound Builders culture. These folks lived until about the 17th century. It seems that most of these people died of waves of disease. Smallpox and influenza killed them off. They had no immunity.

Surely some scattered survivors lived and ended up with other tribes, but their culture was annihilated. Forgotten.

Who mourns the Mound Builders?

I guess I do.

It’s not much, but I prepared a prayer tie and hung it from the dead tree at the top of the mound. You could be depressed about the Mound Builders and the rotten maple at the top of their memorial, but I choose not to look at it that way.

The dead tree atop a dead civilization- it’s all part of the cycle.

Each and every one of us is a survivor of past calamity. Do we really think of ourselves as uniquely divorced from the track of history? Do we think we can escape the Mound Builder’s fate?

Nope, it’s not going to happen.

So on this weekend, I remember. I pay my respects to those who came before. To those whose luck ran out.

Like this guy. A tombstone tucked away in a forgotten corner with about twenty others. Victims or survivors of the US Civil War, by far our deadliest war.

How soon do many forget, or worse, idolize, an ignominious cause? It took years to recover all the dead strewn across the American landscape. Some ended up here.

Forgotten.

But not by me. I took a moment and reflected. Hung out with the guys and left them a nice flag. Played a few songs they’d recognize, and the fiddle sang with the gentle breeze.

I sighed.

This is Memorial Day, as I prefer it. No speeches, no band, no BBQ or sales.

Just a survivor’s gratitude.

I remember.

Evening, everybody.

Today, with a lot of help from my peeps, book #3 of the Ohio Rifles trilogy hit the shelves at the Beast.

You can grab your copy here in the US.

Or here in the UK.

Here also, in AU.

This trilogy took years to get out there, but it’s been my most successful venture. Writing it was a lot of fun, and I’ve enjoyed my journey with the characters here. I think many other people have enjoyed this, too, and that’s the whole point.

We followed our hero as he grew in this alternate World War One, watched his world expand, and saw what happened to him and those he cared about. Some of it was pretty grim. Well, that’s war. No glory. No cool stuff, no guarantee of a happy life.

At best, you survive and tell the tale.

So, now it’s available in its entirety, the Ohio Rifles bit.

On to other things.

Cheers, J

Hey, all. Above is a pic of a private holding his rucksack above his head. He’s being “smoked.”

Back from a pretty amazing vacation. We had a lot of fun.

Now it’s time to do things again.

I happened upon this article, which is a pretty good story. This is what getting smoked is all about- instilling discipline through physical exercise. Being legally tormented to lengths of pain and exhaustion that are difficult to comprehend.

In the US Army, outside of extreme circumstances, you cannot beat the shit out of someone to enforce discipline. I’m not going to say it doesn’t happen, because it does, but you better have a damn good reason or you are in deep shit.

What you can do is apply corrective physical training, which is known as “smoking.”

I have been smoked beyond all reason and have given the smokings in turn.

This is because I came up through the ranks as a junior enlisted troop, reached NCO rank, then ended my career as an officer.

NCOs are generally the ones who hand out smokings. If an officer smokes you, you have really, really fucked up, and after he’s done, then the NCOs will take over until the offending soldier is a quivering mass of jelly, usually covered in sand or pine needles and mud.

Hmm, what are things I’ve done to deserve a smoking.

The list is long.

First, nothing. Someone else screwed up, and everyone paid. The one who caused everyone to get smoked? He’d pay later, after the NCOs went to bed.

Next, flicking a cigarette butt where it didn’t belong. Or, forgetting to button a button in an inspection. Not cleaning the latrine properly. Showing up drunk to formation. The list is long. Very long.

One of the worst, most painful experiences I had was something I don’t remember. But I do remember what happened.

We were in our Class A’s (dress uniform). Something happened. Don’t know what. We were ordered to “open ranks.” Basically, this is an inspection formation. Everyone spaces themselves out. The command “dress right, dress” is given to ensure the ranks are perfectly straight. When a soldier hears this command, they turn their head sharply to the right and extend their left arm at a 90-degree angle, pointing at the next soldier in line. The next command is usually “ready, front.” When you hear this, you drop your arm, turn your head straight, and return to the position of attention.

On that cursed day, it didn’t happen. Our arms remained perfectly rigid and extended, our heads cocked sharply to the right.

After a few minutes, my arm and neck began to ache terribly. Our sergeants watched implacably. A fellow in front of me, his arm began to tremble. Soon, everyone was doing it. It went on and on. An NCO walked down the lines, he started snatching “cunt caps” (garrison caps) from people’s heads and placing them on the tips of their trembling hands.

The minute weight of the garrison hats was too much. A soldier dropped his arm, utterly exhausted. Screaming ensued. “Are you letting your fucking hat kick your ass, retard? Get your fucking arm up!”

“I can’t!”

“Then get on the ground with your cap and do the front leaning rest.” (The push-up position. Also bad!)

I’m not sure for how long this went on under the blazing Southern skies, but it seemed an eternity.

We were wrecked by holding a simple body position through following a lawful order. Not a single blow was given. Very little was said. I’ve never seen this in a movie, and I don’t think you will. I never forgot how effective it was. You don’t need to hit anyone. Simple exercise or body position will do. Even simple children’s games like “Leapfrog” can become the worst torture.

Years later, I stood before my platoon. They had fucked up. They knew it, you could hear a pin drop. I looked them over and spoke a simple command.

“Open ranks, march.”

It was the gift that kept on giving.

Looking back on things, we were given a choice. Follow lawful orders and get what’s coming to you, or, bitch up and get paperwork.

Smoking’s better, trust me.

Alright, you may need some explanation for how a chunk of wood jammed into my tire has a place in an article named “Pleasures.”

Don’t worry, an explanation will be forthcoming.

It’s the little things in life, really, that make all the difference.

I got that flat while returning home from helping a family member get health care from the Department of Veteran’s Affairs, the VA. My uncle, a veteran of the Korean War, was in a jam. Nearly ninety, with totally inadequate (and expensive) “care,” he was whiling away his days in a terrible bed, and my exhausted aunt was his sole provider.

Well, they finally decided to hand his discharge papers over to the VA, and lo and behold, he’s now getting the care he needs in less than 30 days from the start of the process. People cry about the VA all the time, and I don’t see what the problem is. They’ve provided me with world-class care, and now it’s my uncle’s long-overdue turn. I’ve helped the process a little, and it’s involved a bit of travel. No biggie.

The flat was a result of this. A chunk of wood flew from a contractor’s truck, and I didn’t have time to dodge it. A quarter mile later, and my “low inflation” display came on, with a helpful diagram to let me know which wheel and it’s current pressure. 27 psi, and dropping fast. There was a problem. I looked for a good place to park, right away. Fortunately, there was an Aldi with a generous parking lot nearby. I whipped it into there with ten psi to spare.

I got out and looked. Yep, a big chunk of wood was jammed into my tire, there was no way it could be patched. I scratched my head. It was raining, of course, and I had never changed the tire on this particular vehicle. The spare was stowed in an odd place, and there is a whole procedure to getting it out. Damn.

A lightbulb went off. Hey, didn’t I have Ford Roadside Assistance as part of the vehicle purchase package? I wasn’t sure, but there was a 1-800 number in my owner’s handbook (which I had been looking through to figure that spare tire thing out). I called it, and instead of speaking with an operator, I received a series of texts. Within five minutes, a repair dude had been dispatched, complete with a Google Maps display with an icon of the inbound repair vehicle’s location.

Easy-peasy, and it turned out I didn’t even have to fish around in the booklet for the 1-800 number, I could have used my Ford app. But I digress.

The fellow showed up, and I watched how he took out the spare- it could be that sometime I’d be in a place hours from nearby help, so I wanted to file that info away for potential future use.

He swapped the blown tire for the spare, had me sign a receipt, and he left. No cost involved. I followed Siri to the nearby Ford garage and they took my vehicle in and installed four new tires.

Within two hours from the time I hit that jagged chunk of wood, I was back on the road. Ford did an amazing job, from start to finish.

An unpleasant event turned into an unexpected pleasure; I now have full faith and confidence in Ford’s Roadside Assistance program, and new tires for a reasonable fee.

Today was violin maintenance day. Another pleasure.

Guys, there is nothing quite like getting your functional antiques out, along with polishing cloth and polish.

It’s a pleasure.

Holding these old girls in your hands, admiring the craftsmanship and obvious wear from their past lives. Smelling the wood, rosin and polish. Rubbing them down with a soft cloth and a thin layer of fragrant varnish restorer. Bringing out the shine. Tuning them and then giving them the first strokes of the bow.

Hearing them sing, at least as well as I can do.

It’s a great way to start off the day.

A pleasure.

Hey, all.

A follow-up bit on the restoration of the nineteenth-century violin I scored at the local antique mall for USD 92.50.

The earlier articles are here (No. 1), and here (No. 2).

There are few things in life I enjoy more than finding an apparent piece of junk and bringing it back into service. I guess I’m a sucker for a good deal, and have an eye for an object’s potential. Rose the violin falls neatly into my interests.

All of my violins have nicknames, it’s how I tell them apart and they usually have something to do with their appearance, sound or origin. One of my favs, Twist the mountain fiddle, is called Twist because of it’s deformed peg box, a result of imperfect craftmanship or poor storage, hard to tell which. If you’re interested, there are a series of older posts about that particular resto, it was a fascinating process (to me).

So why did I name this violin “Rose?” Well, it’s an appearance thing. She has a very nice reddish patina, accentuated by the new furniture I got for her. Also, I grew tired of calling her “clone,” a temporary nickname based upon the fact that she is probably a German Stradivarius pattern copy.

It’s always a gratifying moment when these relics play their first notes after decades in storage. My instructor, Ryan, had the privilege of playing the first tune on this old girl after some minor tweaks. Rose didn’t need much to wake her up, which the antique dealer foolishly didn’t know (or care). See below.

Ryan says it’s not his best recording ever, but hey, it was meant as a quick demo, not a concert quality recording. He did a quick version of a song we’ve played often, “Good Old Mountain Dew,” a regional fav. Here’s another version of it, done by Reina del Cid, a personal fav, right up there with Rhiannon Giddens, another amazing musician.

For the pure hell of it, I decided to add a couple more versions of this song. Check this one out, or this one.

This. This was a successful restoration! One of the finest yet of a high-quality instrument that had been set aside decades ago. Another detail below.

The craftsmanship that’s on display here. It’s amazing and a little heartbreaking that this fiddle almost ended up in the trash or hanging on a wall.

Rose turned out astoundingly well, and I’ve played her a bit since I got her back.

The violin has that comfy feel of an old instrument and that wonderful old wood and polish smell. As a real bonus, it plays very well- it’s a quality instrument. Incomprehensible that it was set aside, but such is life.

Thanks to everyone involved in this process- my eagle-eyed daughter and Ryan.

This has been a good week- I needed a break.

Hey, all. It’s been a busy past month, a lot of life events happening.

The image above is a section of a cemetery at the sprawling former site of an insane asylum located in Athens, Ohio. Note all the tiny white markers, most have a three-digit number carved upon them, the only identifier given to the poor soul who died while in institutional care.

Note the cluster of white markers- these were found randomly when they cleaned up the cemetery recently. The first time I saw this place, it looked like a hay field. I was walking the grounds looking for paw-paws, a banana like indigenous fruit, when I tripped over a marker. I asked my companion “WTF is this?” and she said “oh, this is a big-ass cemetery.” I had no clue. We did locate the small paw-paw grove, and the fruits were delicious.

However, I couldn’t get this place out of my head. A lonely place, full of forgotten people.

Well, at least they cleaned it up, as you can see. Note all the small US flags, there are a lot of them. The VA, the US Department of Veteran’s Affairs, went through the effort of identifying the veterans amongst the anonymous graves and they placed stone markers at some point in the past. I’d imagine there was a dusty book somewhere full of names next to the three-digit numbers on the graves.

It says something about how seriously the VA takes the care of the departed that they went through the trouble of ID’ing the graves of veterans in a place like this. It must have involved some real sleuthing to figure all of this out. But they did it, probably in the 1950s.

In the years since, I’d imagine the cemetery has gone through waves of neglect and then clearing. My bet is that this latest round of cleanup was done before Veteran’s Day, the eleventh of November. A day that used to be known as Armistice Day. A lot of times veteran’s organisations or perhaps the local chapter of the Reserve Officers’ Training Corps do these types of cleanups.

The dead matter. They are our ancestors, even if they landed in such a bad situation in life that they ended up here, in this semi-forgotten potter’s field.

I took a picture of the above grave because it caught my eye. This soldier, or inmate, had served with the 122nd Ohio Volunteer Infantry, or the 122nd OVI. They had an extensive service record in the US Civil War, and, as was usual in those days, more men died of disease than combat. It turns out that I had an ancestor with the 122nd, he served with D Co. as opposed to C Co, as the corporal above did. It’s possible they knew each other.

My ancestor was captured in 1863, in Winchester, Virginia. According to my Grandma, he spent time in Andersonville Prison. Strangely enough, this was related to me second-hand from Grandma, who had heard the tale directly from the veteran as a child.

As she lay dying, I thought to ask an odd question. As a child, I had always talked with old people, they had the most interesting things to say. For example, I spoke with a very old woman who was born in my childhood home in 1888. She told me of life back then. Stories about the end of World War One, the transition from animals to machines on the farm. But I digress.

I asked my Grandma if she knew any stories about the Civil War. It turns out, she did. And that’s how I heard the tale of a veteran of the 122nd Ohio, and his bad experience at Andersonville.

This is a big motivator for me as a storyteller. If you share the story, these people aren’t truly dead. They live on. Alive in living memory, their worlds brought to life for those of us in the age of the iPhone.

A time before electricity. A time when teamsters weren’t members of a union, but people who handled horses for a living. A time when a simple UTI could kill you.

Contrary to popular belief, those times weren’t good. There was <zero> social safety net, and most people had to work as hard as they could from sunrise to sunset just to make ends meet, then they died in their forties or fifties for the most part.

It was a time before recorded music, a time when a book was precious gift.

It was a time when people with the “Soldier’s Sickness” were sent to institutions by their families, who were driven by desperation to attempt to help their soldier who came home, altered forever.

If you look at the image of the potter’s field, there are a lot of little US flags. Each and every one was a soldier once, a member of the line.

There they lay, along with the others that society didn’t know what to do with.

Pretty crazy.

Be thankful you live in the age of the internet, anti-depressants and fast food.

I am, all the time. Especially so when I visit this potter’s field.

While not a shipload of regular main battle tanks (which would be nice), I read today that the latest batch of goodies for Ukraine includes bridging materials and vehicles for the Ukrainian army.

This is an introduction of the M60 Patton design into the Ukrainian War, and it could foreshadow a larger deployment of the type into the theatre.

I’ve made the argument for a while that the M60 makes sense in the fighting there, and it should be used. It was a good design, more than capable of taking on the T72 series tanks that are the backbone of the Russian armored forces in the conflict.

Also, any heavy maneuver guy will tell you that crossing obstacles under fire is an essential component of tank warfare. The AVLB was designed to do just that, and can support the majority of the vehicles currently used in the war.

The Ukrainian combat engineers have three missions- mobility, counter-mobility, and survivability. They are the ones who will operate these vehicles, in conjunction with maneuver forces.

Bridging units are essential to this effort, and they are a key part of the combined-arms team. It’s not a glamorous job, but it’s dangerous as hell and utterly necessary.

Remember, a BCT (Brigade Combat Team) has these elements- Infantry, Armor, Artillery, Engineers, and Aviation assets. These elements work together to create the effects necessary to wage war and fulfill the commander’s, and ultimately the national intent.

This is the essence of maneuver warfare, and the AVLB snuck in under the radar.