John B. “Jack” Melin, 32°

Masonry’s sense of brotherhood is prefigured in an anecdote
from the author’s childhood.

Photo: Elizabeth A. Williams, The Scottish Rite Journal

I stood alone, the center of attention. I was dressed in my Sunday best, knickers with starched shirt and bow tie, and had a three-quarter-size violin tucked neatly under my right arm. A rosined bow hung from my index finger. Mother was seated at the piano. Dad was instructing others where to sit. Grandpa stood beside me with his violin. My aunt Fliss (short for Florence) and uncle Herb Hart were there. Fliss was holding my sister, Martha, on her lap; my brother Herbert was unattended and very bored by the proceedings. The formal atmosphere frightened me. The year was 1943, and our family had driven 150 miles to visit Grandpa during the spring school break.

From the center hallway, one would enter the front room, called the parlor, and exit into the dining room. The piano was located on the south wall next to a large window that looked out onto the street. An old oriental rug covered most of the floor. There was adequate furniture to seat everyone comfortably.

My grandfather, Oscar Butterweck, best known to me as a tough disciplinarian, was a learned man who had a great appreciation for the arts. He shared his enthusiasm with his family by encouraging them to participate. All his children could play an instrument. Mother couldn’t read a note, but had a good ear for music and played the piano best of his three children. When they were younger, my mother would accompany them, and Grandpa would play his violin while the others sang. Now his instrument simply stayed in its case. His hands were gnarled and disfigured by arthritis that made playing difficult and perhaps painful, but he was still willing to play for his family.

Grandpa had heard me stroke the strings shortly after I had taken my first lessons. It was now three years later, and I knew I was on the spot to give the performance of my life. My violin was an inexpensive beginner’s violin. Far too often, the pegs tended to slip causing the violin to go out of tune. The sheet music Mom brought with us was a piece I had learned to play with our middle school orchestra. The sheet music was placed on a tall music stand so Grandpa could follow and play along. Mother began to play. It was time.

I began on an upstroke, attempting to keep up with Mother’s tempo. I was terrible and knew it. Occasionally I lost my place, and it didn’t take long for me to realize that I was far outclassed by my Grandfather, who had never seen the music. He not only kept up with the tempo, but played little variations that weren’t written in the score. What made matters worse for me was that Mother seemed to understand what he was doing and adjusted to his movements. I quit playing and sat down to watch and listen. It was beautiful. Soon they were playing tunes that I had never heard, and everyone was singing. Even my Brother tried to get into the act, and my little sister danced a bit as she sang.

It seemed like hours later, when all were exhausted, that the music ended. But the best was yet to come. Grandpa tapped me with the bow from his violin. “Jackie, come over here!” he said, as he carefully placed his beautiful violin into the black sculpted violin case. “I want you to take this home with you, but first you must promise that you will look after this instrument with great care. If you continue to take lessons, I think you will play better with this full-size violin. Now, what do you say to that?”

“Wow, Grandpa, this is really great!” I replied. As I caressed his beautiful violin, I could see myself becoming the envy of all the other kids in our orchestra back home. “I’ll sure try, Grandpa. I promise.”

My Grandpa, in his infinite wisdom, understood my feelings and was willing to share with me the very instrument that had provided him so much joy and enriched the lives of his family. I suddenly felt a genuine warmth from my Grandpa that had never been there before. A kind of miracle had happened. I no longer stood alone.

I have retold this story here because there is a sequel to it in every Mason’s life. When we knelt at the altar of Freemasonry, we felt alone initially, but as the Degree ceremonies progressed, we came to realize we were not alone but surrounded by men we could trust and enjoy. As Brothers, we began to participate in Lodge activities involving even more people and expanding into the community. Freemasonry is like that; it makes one feel good to be a part of it. My Grandpa was a Mason.

John B. “Jack” Melin was raised a Master Mason in Payson Lodge #70, Payson, Ariz., in 1982 and is now an active member of Paradise Valley Silver Trowel Lodge #29, Phoenix. He was recently installed as Wise Master, 18º, Valley of Phoenix Scottish Rite. Retired from the printing business, he enjoys community service projects sponsored by his Lodge and was elected Mason of the Year in 1996. Contacts: 318 E. Waltann Lane, Phoenix, Arizona, 85022-3040; JBMelin4@wmconnect.com