Stories

Mandolin Rain

My little brother was a musician; he could play anything.

 "What a waste; you'll never learn to play it," I told him when he spent his summer earnings on a mandolin.

He was playing it in no time at all and playing it well. At the end of the following summer, he purchased a nice guitar. True to form, he was quickly playing the thing like a champ.

Though Jim and I would learn to play the guitar to lesser degrees, he and I would sit around Mom's house and sing while Don played. I learned everything I know from Don and still play the songs he taught me.

Donald Cook "DC or Cookie" Neel died at 35 in a shooting accident. His death was a terrible loss. He was the gentlest of souls, loved by everyone who knew him. 

His death hit Jim hard; they were best friends. They did everything together. They attended the same college, Birmingham Southern, eight years apart and were members of the same fraternity, Theta Chi. I was away in the Army, separated geographically, and, being the middle kid, always a bit of an outsider.

Don was the guy I could always depend upon to give me straight, unemotional information on family situations.

Being a medical professional by trade, we all counted on DC's opinion during our dad's long fight with Cancer. At Don's suggestion, I flew from Izmir, Turkey, when it looked like Dad was in his last moments. Though I was back in Izmir when Dad died, I credit Don for helping me see Dad one more time before he passed.

Like all baby brothers, however, Don was a little shit when he was a kid.

When he began playing the Mandolin, he learned to play the lick in Maggie May by Rod Stewart. He played it over and over, an exercise in picking and fingering. He would play it slow, fast, softly, loudly, over and over and over. It was annoying, very annoying.

One day, while I watched a new episode of Star Trek, he plopped down in the chair across the den from me, Mandolin in hand. I asked him not to play it while I was watching the TV.

Maggie May.

Dad, sitting in his recliner, reading his paper, seemed undisturbed, even oblivious. I asked nicely, "DC, please stop or go to another room."

Maggie May.

I pled, "Cookie. Please Stop."

Maggie May.

I asked Dad to intercede, to no avail.

Maggie May.

I warned him, "Don, you better stop."

Maggie May.

That was IT, Game On. I stood up, walked across the room, grabbed the Mandolin out of Don's hands, walked out on the back deck, and threw the damned thing out into the woods. I turned around and found myself face-to-face with Dad.

DC was whining, Dad was pissed, and I was in deep trouble. My adrenaline was pumping. I remember clenching my fists and stepping toward Dad, which was Stupid! Though Dad stood about 4 inches shorter than me, he was still an imposing man, not someone with whom anyone in their right mind crossed. The look in his eye told me not to take another step, but his voice was calm, "Go get the Mandolin, apologize to your brother, and then go to your room until supper. You will pay for any damage."

Luckily, there was not a scratch on it.

To the tune of Maggie May, I sulked back to my bedroom.

When DC died, his wife Kelly offered up some of his things. Jim took the Alvarez. I accepted the Mandolin. It sat in the case Jim made for it, decorated for Don with a scene from an old Science Fiction paperback depicting Ray Bradbury's short story A Sound of Thunder, for twenty-seven years. I got it out the other day, bought a new bridge and strings, and strung it.

My goal was to learn to play Maggie May.

Note: I gave Don's Mandolin away in June 2023. Hopefully, its new owner will have many long years playing it. The way I see it, my little brother is gone and keeping it won't keep his memory alive past my lifetime.