Mandolins from Jefferson, GA

I am a musician. I can't even comprehend life without music. If anyone asks me when I started singing, the answer is "always." I played the piano, had a short stint in violin and switched to flute in the fourth grade. I loved it. I was dedicated. I haven't played my flute for months (and not regularly for years).

A few months ago I decided that I was going to learn to play the guitar. This would support my secret aspirations (brought on by too many roaring and writhing crowds) of becoming a rock star. My dad was eager to donate his first "real" guitar, a Guild D55 from about 1982. When it got to Athens, the action was way off and I was directed to "Tony in Jefferson" who could reset the neck for me.

Jefferson is not physically far from Athens, but it's a different world entirely. Athens is a liberal college town (go dawgs) with a population that waxes and wanes with the school year. Students have an array of bars to choose from on any given night and there's almost always some sort of special available for those who like beer, but don't have a ton of cash. I believe that one could eat wings on special every night of the week.

Jefferson is 20 minutes down a two lane road. A railroad runs parallel for a good part of the way. When your car passes through a cloud of dust, you almost expect to see a tumbleweed on the other side. Downtown is the crossing of two main roads. One left turn later, is Tony's street. I drive around back to a shed, otherwise known as "the shop." Tony welcomes me with a smile and a beard that belongs on a certain Christmas favorite. He immediately clamps the neck of my guitar onto his cluttered workbench, removes the strings and tells me what a nice instrument I have. Tony is a man who loves what he does. He goes on and on about fixing up instruments and how it was supposed to be more like a hobby, but he has more customers than time. He was featured in the Atlanta Journal Constitution and his work has been displayed at the Smithsonian in Washington D.C. He's more excited about the time that a bluegrass legend (don't ask me what his name was) played one of his mandolins. He then hands me one, not completely finished, and tells me to play it. I don't even play guitar yet, but this thing is beautiful. I tell him so, and he croons like a proud father. He then shows me "the" mandolin played by our hero who's name I cannot recall. Tony is passionate. Tony is sort of my hero at the moment.

As I drive home, without guitar for at least a week, I'm buzzing. I'm completely inspired. I've got Air in the CD player and my song comes on. This is the kind of song that makes me shudder it's so good. There have always been some chords that do that to me. I used to cry in choir. Barber's Adagio for Strings has the same effect. It's impossible to describe, but it's something so beautiful that you can only hope others might experience that same kind of feeling. The combination of the perfect chord and the slight buzz of a great expectation have me closing my eyes and rolling down the windows. The air is at about 90 degrees and my hair is standing completely on end. The smell is a subtle combination of dirt, grass and construction. This is wonderful. I am so happy.

Thanks Tony.