A BLAST FROM THE PAST

I haven't always been an Old Trapper, you know. In fact, I've worn many, many hats in my day and only the most recent was made of fox fur.

I look back most fondly on my time playing piano in this little tin-roofed saloon nestled deep in the shadow of the Cascade Mountains somewhere in Western Oregon. 

I'd plink away on the out-of-tune upright the proprietors kept stashed in the corner while all manner of mountain men, loggers, and a host of unsavory characters passed through for a drink or three and a bit of conversation. Good folk, one and all.

Of course I only possessed a passing talent for the piano. But fortunately, the proprietor and his customers didn't much seem to mind. 

Eventually, I moved on from that job and went on to bigger and beefier things. But I do find myself thinking back to those old days with wistful memories. And even to this day, whenever I pass by a piano, I can't help but sit down and play.