America's ... Next (ahem) ... First Mandolin Idol

For 11 years, it was part of the room, not an instrument played for any extended stretches.

I owned a mandolin. No one would call me a mandolin player - especially me.

Bought from a college friend for $265 when he upgraded to a newer model, you might say I tiptoed around the instrument, that I was afraid of it. I put it away frustrated every irregular time I picked it up. My fingers twisted across the tiny fretboard, wrecking chords wherever they landed.

Fiddling around led me to figure out a few songs and chords -REM's "Losing My Religion," a few fragments from Zep's "Battle of Evermore" and "Going to California," intros to a half-dozen Pogues tunes and the outro to "Maggie Mae". But I knew pieces of songs, no chords and never kept it from its case for long.

Now, the mandolin and I try to spend an hour of quality time together every day, learning chords and simple bluegrass tunes in hopes of someday playing before audience larger than a mystified cat.

A month ago, it was propped in the corner, coated in a film of dust and cat hair. My thoughts about it consisted of "I should really play it more often" before moving onto something else and forgetting it again.

Cue musical epiphany: During a conversation in Chicago, I realized that owning mandolin and living Nashville meant I no longer had an excuse to not play it properly. Teachers might be hard to come by in Columbus, but I would never be in a better position to learn.

With a little advice from a mandolin player at work, I found a great teacher at a bargain price (the man has his own line of instruction books, plus a wikipedia page - to honor the student-teacher bond, he'll remain anonymous here).

Two lessons in, I can't say how refreshing it feels to walk out of his practice room. After a terrible day of work, playing "Keep on the Sunny Side" effectively spirited away all its traces.

Holding my own with the bluegrass boys on Full Moon jam nights in Nashville is only the beginning. I'll try one of those in September, once my comfort level rises - that tide is just began to roll in.

I have another dream, one I don't find unrealistic so long as I don't become tethered to Music City.

That desire must stay close to the vest - although it might start along "The Rocky Road to Dublin" or beside "The Sick Bed of Cuchulainn."