Fault Lines - John Knoop

Neither of my parents grew up on farms. My father was the son of a civil engineer
and lived through high school in Troy, Ohio. His great-great grandfather Jacob was one
of the first white settlers in Miami County, having been given a land grant by the
Continental Congress for fighting the British during the revolutionary war.
My mother was raised in the magical kingdom her father Rudolph Wurlitzer
created in a lush suburb of Cincinnati. The house was a multilayered turn-of-the century
castle with an indoor, heated swimming pool on the lowest level, squash courts above
that and a teak-floored music room on the next level. There was a Wurlitzer theater organ
19
at one end and a small room for a
collection of Stradivarius and
Guerneri violins and violas in glass
cases on one side. In another alcove
was a player-piano, but there were no
jukeboxes in sight. They weren’t
proud of the product that saved the
company after the depression. I think
they were too snooty. A few steps
above the music room was the dining room with a massive circular mahogany dining
table centered in a half moon of French doors with a view of the gardens. The table was
mounted on a motorized platform concealed by a rug. My grandfather loved to entertain,
and there was a steady stream of noteworthy guests from the world of music, theater and
the arts at his table. At the beginning of a meal my grandfather simply threw a switch and
the table would turn noiselessly and imperceptibly while the wine and food was served. It
made a complete revolution every hour and a half. At the end of several courses,
heightened by excellent wine and animated conversation, many an astonished guest
would find himself looking into the depths of the music room after having begun the
meal looking out into the gardens. I grew up hearing my mother and her sisters chuckle
about this prank and also how I made pianist Arthur Rubinstein laugh by jumping on his
lap when I was two.