Growing up a child of a mixed marriage meant that I had some interesting cultural experiences at home. (As I write this first sentence I realize that this may read like the introduction to a slide show by your perpetually single oldest Aunt with the 6 cats sitting everyone down for a viewing of her latest vacation to Bolivia. Stick with me here, folks.)

My mother's side of the family went way back to the start of this nation. They were early immigrants. Now, I'm not saying they had the suite off the lido deck on the Mayflower, but they certainly were some of the 'early adopters' of this newfangled 'new world' thing. She was raised as the middle child of three sisters by a proper New England doctor and his doting wife in an apparently Normal Rockwell-esque setting.

My father, on the other hand, was a fresh-off-the-boat German lad, coming to North America right after World War II. He didn't speak much English at all. If you are a student of history you may recall that German volks were not particularly popular right about the mid to late-1940's. He had spent two years in a Russian prison camp on the Eastern Front and had lost a brother and more friends and family than he could count as his country recovered from the tragedy of the Nationalsozialistische Deutsche Arbeiterpartei. He had lost everything, and at the age of 16 he was fighting to defend the scraps of his homeland. Right or wrong, he was a child of the war. He was, unfortunately, shaped as a young man by the violence around him and the constant fear of losing even more of yourself to the horror of war. He never really has recovered from that.

In spite of his history, my father was a charming young man. When he came to North America, he clicked his heels when he would kiss a ladies hand and was a really smooth player. When my parents married and spawned we had a fairly blended household of American and German influence. Mostly German blend, it turns out. All the heel-clicking isn't just for show, you know.

Sherman, set the WABAC machine to 1955.

Hindsight being 20/20, perhaps her saying yes wasn't such a great idea.

Sherman, set the WABAC machine to 1965.

Enter.... me.

Sherman, set the WABAC machine to 1970.

I cannot find reliable sources to confirm this, but I am fairly confident that if you are German or from Wisconsin that it is mandatory to begin accordion lessons at the age of 5. It happens right about the same time that they issue your lederhosen. I was lucky to be sick the day they taught yodeling. Yes, if you were wondering, that is me in the photo, age five, sportin' my leather pantaloons.

I also used to have hair.

And was blond.

And thin.

So in my mixed but mostly German family home where we wore lederhosen and yodeled and played accordion and made our own sauerkraut (no, really) and pickles and had our own chickens and garden, the permitted highlight of each week was the one time we were always allowed to watch television. And booooy-howdy did Myron pump up the bubble machine.

We got to watch The Lawrence Welk Show!

Please, please. Contain your excitement. I know, everyone, this is some pretty extreme stuff here and I don't want you to all get too worked up by how darned exciting my childhood was. Ma'am, I am going to have to ask you to please sit down.

Myron Floren was the star of the show, as far as I was concerned. He was livin' the dream. He was a rock star! Surrounded by fawning babes in conservative dresses with moderately high heels and only enough makeup to accentuate, along with all fast cars and parties 'til dawn, no doubt. He wasn't just a guy on a hokey show with music only my parents could like. Hell no.

He was playing the accordion in the big show.

It was all about the Benjamins, baby.

Of course it was the expectation that being German and watching The Lawrence Welk Show, I would love to play the accordion.

I hated playing my accordion.

I also hated my lederhosen.

I have only just started to appreciate sauerkraut.

No, really, that's not true. I hated practicing my accordion.

Also, sauerkraut isn't all it's cracked up to be.

There was exactly one motivation for me to go through the lessons of the week and to practice the scales and the arpeggios and to learn 'Mary Had a Little Lamb' or the 'Zig-Zag Polka.'

One of the bright points of my childhood up to about age 12 was my weekly accordion lesson with Mr. Mose Ronzitti.

He was one of the kindest, gentlest men I have ever known, and was an incredibly patient teacher. He was an old man when I knew him, probably in his 70's. I would be dropped off and we would sit in the practice space for 30 minutes and he would teach me everything there was to know about music and music theory and sight reading and intervals and chords and arpeggios. He knew when I had practiced. He knew when I had sloughed off. He knew what songs I could play, and he knew how to challenge me and always push me a little further to perfecting his craft. But that's not all. He knew about my home and about the fact that my father hadn't worked out all his anger over World War II and how he took it out on his wife and kids. He knew how to be a teacher when a little boy who was scared and confused by the anger he saw every day in his home needed a friend and a guide. He knew that a passion for music didn't come just from learning the notes, but from knowing that music can be an escape from life when you need it most. He knew how to be my friend when I needed a compass of normality in my young life.

It is a true and simple gift to be a teacher to a child who needs it.

One of the gifts I intend to give my children are the lessons I learned from Mr. Ronzitti. Sherman, set the WABAC machine to 1980.

In my youthful exuberance and hormone-driven high school years, I forgot about Mr. Ronzitti and dismissed him from my thoughts as someone from my past. It's one of the privileges of youth to forget your mentors from time to time.

Imagine my surprise when, during the height of puberty, I discovered that the girls weren't overcome with lust at the thought of my accordion prowess.

I wanted nothing more than to play in the Marching Band in High School. Well, that and a date with the shy brunette in my A.P. English class that I never quite worked up the nerve to talk to. Ever.

My parents had long divorced and I was living with my mother in a slummy little apartment in the guts of Erie, Pennsylvania. I was forming my first real friendships after a very tumultuous childhood and had met my friend Ben and his family. He played trumpet in the band. He had friends and ... I played accordion.

It turned out that one of the lessons that Mr. Ronzitti had managed to slip in was an ability to read music, both bass and treble clef. The accordion had, it also turns out, given me the ability to do different things with my left and right hands at the same time.

In addition to the snickers you are probably making right now, it also meant that I could play drums. Anyone can whack a bass drum. The hard part is doing it at the right time, and doing it with panache.

So, my career as an accordionist ended and my apprenticeship into the world of drumming began. At the tender age of 16, I put my accordion away for the last time and started hitting things and making a lot of noise. It was sublime.

I quickly picked up the marimba, and was playing in the jazz ensemble shortly after on drum kit.

Unfortunately for me it turned out that the choice of musical instrument had absolutely nothing to do with whether or not the girls in high school would give me the time of day.

Sherman, set the WABAC machine to 2009.

The past year has been financially tough. WIth the economic slow down, we have had to tighten up our belts until our family business picks back up again. So, even though we own a toy store (located conveniently on Plymouth Road and Nixon on the northeast side of Ann Arbor with plenty of free parking!) we thought very seriously about the 'big gift' we would give our kids for Christmas.

This is where the lessons given to me by Mr. Ronzitti continues to illuminate and guide my life.

My wife and I decided to give our children the gift of music.

We talked with our two kids, and my son immediately said he wanted to play guitar.

My daughter, who already loves to sing, wanted to play flute.

After some discussion, we decided together on a piano since that would let her sing and play at the same time and get started faster. If she wants, we can get into the flute in a year or so.

We poked around craigslist.org and found a digital piano and a 3/4 sized Fender guitar and an amp. We wanted them to learn on 'real' instruments - to get as close an experience that you can get to playing in the big leagues. No toy instruments for us.

Now our living room is more than just a place to watch TV or play games or run our busineses.

It is a music center.

We keep the instruments out and the kids play them from time to time. No pressure, but we wanted them to be familiar with them and to know that music and instruments are and should be a part of life. When they play them it is a joyous noise to our ears.

Probably not so much to our neighbors.

This past week we started the music lessons.

My son had his first guitar lesson with Steve Osborne, owner of Oz's Music on 1920 Packard Street. Steve is a patient man, incredible with kids, and a friend. He sat with my son and they played music together. On the very first day, my son was playing along to Steve on his guitar doing the blues. Music came alive for my son, and although he isn't practicing his guitar every day he certainly has picked it up a few times.

My daughter seems to be preferring the self-taught method for now. She has taught herself a number of simple songs on the piano already (I am helping her with the correct fingering) and writes and sings songs she makes up all the time. Even if I take off my proud poppa ears for a moment, they are really not that bad.

Music to me has been a lifetime passion. I still play drums regularly. I have played professionally, done my share of studio work, done some small tours with bands, and have settled in my adult life with the satisfaction of getting to play regularly with some of the incredible local talent in Ann Arbor such as Thayrone X, Doug Wolgat, Todd Perkins, George Bedard, (Slick) Rick Humesky, and a host of others. I get to bang with the boys every Tuesday night at The Tap Room Annex in Ypsilanti at 7pm. Come on out.

When I watched my son with Steve at his first lesson, I flashed back to my mentor Mr. Ronzitti and I smile. I hope that some day he remembers Steve the same way I remember my music teacher.

Thank you, Mr. Ronzitti, for the music lessons. Thank you for your love and support.

Mr. Mose Ronzitti died in June, 1982.

Sherman, set the WABAC machine to 1982, please. I really mean it this time.

I want to say thank you and goodbye to an old friend.

Thank you for being my teacher. I miss you.

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After 22 years of working in Information Technology, teaching and consulting, Hans Masing turned his focus to specialty and educational toys. He runs Tree Town Toys, Brain Station and Dragonfly Depot with his wife Patricia and their children Keller and Simone. Brain Station started in 2002 as a "crazy idea" in the family home, and has grown to be a successful Internet specialty toy retail operation and fulfillment center. He opened Tree Town Toys as a brick-and-mortar specialty store in 2006, and launched Dragonfly Depot (online fulfillment and distribution of specialty toys) in 2007. He currently serves on the Board of Directors of the American Specialty Toy Retailing Association. For fun he plays drums with North and The Witch Doctors from time to time and raises chickens in his back yard with his kids. Being a dad is a constant adventure for him, and he lives by the motto "It's never too late to have a happy childhood!" He can occasionally be seen at his Day Job™ at JStor in downtown Ann Arbor.