Grandma and my ukulele
The seed was planted a few years ago, when my elderly grandmother pointed me towards a small bookshelf. “Take whatever you want”, she said, “I’m not planning on leaving anything behind when I go”.
I picked up two volumes of poetry, carefully annotated in her spidery hand. A history of the Mennonites. Then I noticed a slim book entitled, of all things, “How to play the Ukulele”. Grandma had a notoriously wry sense of humour, and was infmaous in our family for — and this was way before my time, so I’ve only seen photos — a raucous, knee-slappin’ ukulele-flailing, vaudeville comedy routine.
Whoa, Grandma!
I kissed my grandmother and tucked the books into my bag — and not long afterwards, she passed away.
What is it now, ten years later? Well, that ukulele seed has finally sprouted. I’ve just become the proud owner of an early-50’s vintage Bobby Henshaw ukulele. It’s a little beauty, ridiculously fun to play, a fabulous graphic design stress-reliever, but best of all — every time I pick it up, I remember Grandma..


