I talk to my dad often about how much has changed since my childhood. One thing that hasn't kept up with all the change is his music business. That's a good thing.
His little music shop will celebrate its 50th birthday this year.
Back in 1974, a little business opened up in Western Pennsylvania. Its mainstay would be the repair of brass and woodwind instruments, and 50 years later the technology has evolved marginally compared to the rest of the world. Instruments are still repaired largely by hand with specialty tools akin to jeweler's equipment.
My dad opened his humble repair shop in the basement of his home, only to be forced out when I came along. The dirt from rebuilding instruments penetrated every inch of their house, so his grandmother loaned him the money to buy and renovate a small building nearby. My dad, his brother, and their dad renovated the building themselves, and it still stands there today.
Scars and stains from decades ago remain in the wooden joists, on the doorframes, and in the bones of this building. Musical notes from rehearsals, lessons, and play-testing instruments can still be heard if you're quiet enough. Squonks from children trying instruments to see which one they liked still rattle my eardrums.
Repairing musical instruments by hand is an art form that requires touch, feel, and patience. My dad taught me the basics as a kid and then gave me the advanced course throughout my 20s. On more than one occasion, we were called on to rescue instruments caught in floods, fires, and even run over by school buses at a Friday night football game.
Depending on the extent of damage to the instruments, sometimes more extreme measures were necessary to make them playable again. After one local school was flooded by a rising river, we were asked to disinfect and repair all the instruments. Some of the instruments were found floating in stagnant flood water, and it was a dreadful, smelly job. I almost lost my mind when, during a rinse, a giant rubber spider washed out of a tuba bell. I'm pretty sure that was the only time I ever shrieked like a banshee.
Making instruments playable was sometimes a physical job but always enjoyable. These days, my dad's aging hands and shoulders have trouble wrestling dents from the larger instruments, so he turns down the work because he can. Those hands have played countless notes and chords on the guitar, held tubas, clarinets, and piccolos, and shaken the hands of untold numbers of musicians thankful for his services.
There are days I feel guilty for not staying on to help him, but he understands. Sometimes I think it's a longing to walk in his shoes for a while longer.
Parts of the job of overhauling instruments used to involve loud buffing equipment, lacquer ovens, and carcinogenic chemicals, but many of those have been replaced by more responsible solutions now. The old buffing and polishing equipment has produced a layer of fine red dust over the decades that still clings to everything. The faint mustiness of these elements and pipe smoke from ages ago combine in such a way that there can't be another place in the universe that smells like old metal, leather, and faint tobacco.
The large workbenches capable of holding tubas and baritone saxophones still sit where they were placed all those years ago. They were built out of 4x4s and were meant to withstand the force of a neutron bomb. The workbench that was my home for ten years is mostly configured the way I left it 15 years ago. And the boss's bench is still right beside the front window so he can see who's coming.
The funny little quirks I picked up from him still make me chuckle. He would sometimes make customers wait a few minutes before tending to them even if he wasn't working on something. He wanted them to know he was busy. Busyness was a sign of success in my dad's book, and the public needed to see the shop as busy.
And it was.
The butterfly effect from this tiny place is immeasurable. Thousands of lives changed — almost every one of them in a positive way. Some of his former customers have gone on to make careers in music, and others only to play for a few years in school. I often think of all the parents of the kids playing their school band concerts beaming with pride and sometimes horror because I'm now one of them.
Dozens and dozens of different people worked in his tiny shop over the years. It was the place to go for kids to get their first jobs. Nephews, nieces, in-laws, cousins, friends, spouses, and even my sister and I have worked there.
At one point in the 80s and 90s, six or seven people jammed into this small building to repair and rent band instruments, making music possible for so many and putting food on the table for their families. When I look at it now, I have no idea how those people functioned in such a small space.
In its heyday, friends would swing by to say hello, talk shop (musical and otherwise), and maybe play some music. They would always end up mired in conversation for hours. They'd have a cup of coffee or even a beer from the 1950s-era refrigerator in the back and get lost in time, as things there didn't seem to change. The world evolved outside of this place, not inside it.
As a teenager, I'd get distracted when friends would come to visit, and one time I left some very important parts in an acid bath overnight, effectively turning them into brass foil. I was suspended without pay for a week while my dad fixed my screw-up, and now 30 years later the instrument is still playable.
At more than one point in my life, I had considered taking the business over when my dad retired, but I didn't feel the place had enough potential for me to grow. Some 15 years ago, I went back to school for HVAC, leaving my dad all alone, and it was still one of the hardest decisions I ever made. I knew I had to go my own way to support my own family, but it wasn't easy.
The way the world has shifted and the music business scaled back. My dad has miraculously outlasted most of his competition. At 68 years old, he chooses when he works, what he repairs, and does what he wants. He just can't retire. He knows lots of musicians depend on him, and he feels a responsibility to them. It's a little Catch-22 of his own making, but he's happy. And I'm pretty sure my mother is happy he has a place to go other than pacing around their house looking for something to do.
The family supported by this tiny operation for all these years is now grown, and he has several grandchildren around for him to enjoy on the weekends. They will never know the blood, sweat, tears, and love poured into this tiny, musical corner of the universe. I'm still humbled each time I visit him there and see the things that have changed and the things that haven't.
To those who know it best, it will be forever known as "The Shop". Five generations have been involved in some way, and perhaps these grandchildren will be the last to know this place. Perhaps it will live on in some way, in the hearts of all connected. My dad can't possibly know how proud his family is to have been part of this place.
