Jeff Ackerman: Some stories can't be told in print alone

The phone call was one of many you might expect a publisher of a local, small-town newspaper to receive in the course of a work day or week.

"Hello, my name is Joe and I was wondering if you could come up to my house so I could show you something," said the voice on the other end of my very busy phone.

"Can you give me a hint, Joe?" I asked, hoping I could ease out of the conversation without stepping on any toes (I need all the friends I can get). "I'm kind of busy."

"I can't tell you," said Joe. "You just have to see it for yourself."

I told him I'd try to get up to his Banner Mountain home one day soon and set his message aside, right next to the note from the guy who wanted to show me his giant head of lettuce. I really had no intention of driving up some country road to see a stranger who wanted to show me something I probably didn't want to see. Last time I did, I spent two hours listening to a guy explain how aliens had been stealing his chickens. He had photos to prove it.

But Joe was insistent, calling me a few more times before I finally grabbed my keys, jumped into my car and headed up Banner Mountain to see what this mysterious fellow named Joe had to show me that was so damned important that he had to interrupt my very important schedule. As Will Ferrell said, "I'm kind of a big deal."

From the outside, Joe's home appeared unoccupied. There were no cars in the driveway, and the porch was covered in leaves. It looked the perfect place to ambush a publisher who runs the biggest newspaper on Sutton Way. I pounded on the torn screen door a few times and, getting no response, headed back to my car, relieved that I'd managed to avoid what would probably turn out to be a complete waste of my valuable time. As I said, I'm kind of a big deal.

Then I heard the shuffling of feet coming around the other side of the porch and came face to face with Joe, dressed in a buttoned-to-the-top wool shirt, slacks and a little blue cap. He looked pretty old (I'd later learn that Joe will celebrate his 98th birthday next month). But he looked me straight in the eyes, shook my hand firmly and welcomed me inside his home. If you close your eyes I'm sure you can imagine the home of a 98-year-old man who lives alone. Especially a man like Joe, who has spent almost a century tinkering with the details of life's things. The easy chair next to the lamp table was cluttered with grocery coupons and a very large magnifying glass. There were little yellow Post-Its everywhere. Joe says he's got a bit of dementia and apologized for pausing in mid-sentence, trying mightily to force his brain to keep up with his tongue. I told him I have the same problem but 50 years sooner than his. It also reminded me of life's full circle. When you are young, your tongue never waits for the brain.

"What did you want to show me?" I finally asked, hoping to make a quick exit.

Joe led me down the narrow hallway to a door that opened to a different, almost golden, light. I stepped into a room and uttered words that Joe has heard from many others who stepped through that door before me.

"Oh, my God!" I whispered, getting a good chuckle from Joe as he stood behind me.

"I ought to put a cross above the door," he said, referring to the Holy reference.

Inside that magical room were rows of violins, numbered one through 103, each tucked in its own custom slot. In the center stood one cello. Joe made his first violin in 1934 and didn't stop until he figured he'd just about nailed the art of violin making.

Joe showed me all the newspaper clippings detailing his violin making and how he'd loaned violins to some of the best players in the world. We ran a piece about Joe a couple of years ago and I'd forgotten (see my earlier reference to dementia).

I would later return to Joe's home with a couple of our newsroom folks for a multimedia Web story (you can see the show at www.theunion.com/section/MEDIACENTER). Joe's is the kind of story you just cannot capture in print alone. I wanted folks to hear Joe tell the stories of his 103 violins, since each has its own story to be told. And I wanted folks to hear the music those 103 violins were capable of producing in the right hands. We'd also brought along local violinist Alasdair Fraser to help in that effort.

I spent most of the afternoon with Joe and when I finally had to leave, I wanted to take Joe with me.

"Why didn't you sell those violins?" I asked Joe before I got into my car.

"Because the violins are more important than the money," he replied, looking as if it should be obvious even for a busy publisher on Sutton Way.

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Jeff Ackerman is the publisher of The Union. His column appears on Tuesdays. Contact him at 477-4299, jeffa@theunion.com, or 464 Sutton Way, Grass Valley 95945.