PART ONE
The minds of old people sometimes hold treasures that should not be lost with their deaths. Such were the stories told to me many years ago by an elderly white musician, Wayne B. Allen, of his friendship with the phenomenal African American pianist, John William 'Blind' Boone.

Mr. Allen first mentioned Boone to me on a wintry afternoon when I, a near-penniless university student in Columbia, Missouri, stood shivering in his drafty workshop while watching him replace the felt on the hammers of an old piano. As he worked he remarked with quiet pride, "You know, I was once Blind Boone's manager."

"Who's Blind Boone?" I asked.

Mr. Allen stared at me across the span of the three generations that separated us and said in a bleak voice, "Do you mean he has been forgotten?"

At that moment I was not concerned over my ignorance of Blind Boone for I was more interested in Mr. Allen himself. We had met the month before when I had taken a damaged violin to him to be repaired. A music professor at the university had told me about Mr. Allen, a retired music storeowner, song writer and music publisher, and had said that he might repair my violin for little money. Violin case in hand, I had climbed the dark, creaking stairs toward Mr. Allen's workshop, but had paused doubtfully at the top, for the windowless hall turned away at a right angle and soon vanished in darkness. Then, drawn toward the muffled tones of a piano tuner at work, I had groped my way through the gloom to a sagging door and knocked.

"Come in," called a cheerful voice.

I'd opened the door and walked into one of the strangest rooms I'd ever seen. A grimy workshop above a furniture store, it was stacked to the ceiling on one side with a cascading pile of boxes, trash and instrument parts. Strung around the walls on wires were violins, mandolins, banjos and guitars -- some ornate with inlaid woods, others mere skeletons in various stages of construction. There was an old piano in the center of the room with all the strings exposed, standing beside a half-assembled pump organ. A path through the debris led to a glowing, pot-bellied stove in one corner, surrounded by three wooden chairs, a coal bucket, a dilapidated cot, a wash stand with a bowl and a water pitcher, and a peeling chest of drawers upon which sat a faded photograph of a little girl with long curls, high-topped shoes and leg-of mutton sleeves. There were torn calendars on the walls, some dating back more than twenty years, along with huge faded prints in ornate gilt frames of Munsing Wear beauties and Gibson Girl pin-ups. But most amazing of all was Mr. Allen himself. There he stood before the piano, like a combination of Einstein and Santa Claus, leather apron drawn tight over a large paunch, white hair flying wild above a translucent, blue-veined forehead, delicate parchment-skinned hands holding a tuning fork. When I explained why I was there he came forward with a warm smile and took my violin case, which he placed on his workbench. He lifted the violin from the case and examined it carefully, running his hands over the golden-red wood. I saw then that he loved instruments for themselves as well as for the music they could make.