Perched high on the Curran Theatre cliff on concert afternoons, I let my gaze slide past the conductor, whose part in the delightful goings-on below rather defeated my comprehension, to focus on the concertmaster, Louis Persinger. Once in a while he would have a solo passage. I learned to wait for those moments when the sweet, lovely sound of the violin floated up to the gallery, thrilling, caressing, and more entrancing than any other. During one such performance I asked my parents if I might have a violin for my fourth birthday and Louis Persinger to teach me to play it.