As I sat down to write this month’s column, I was moved by a violin concerto that sent me back to a memorable experience I had many years ago; I decided to share that unforgettable memory with you:

It began at a boys camp in northern Wisconsin, where I was teaching photography, when I was introduced to the parents of a camper; we connected at first sight. We spent more time than usual together, the top subject being classical music which led to another topic, the fact that I’d never attended a Jewish seder. They on the spot invited me to their home in Shaker Heights, Ohio, for what they promised would be worth the trip. And how right they were!

As I drove the distance from Houghton to Cleveland, I tried to imagine what new experience I would have and hoped I wouldn’t make a fool of myself at a ceremony so foreign to me with a Christian upbringing. But it wasn’t until I drove up the hill in Cleveland to the top, when I gasped – where from left to right, I discovered Shaker Boulevard – blocks of the most impressive homes of all vintages and designs I’d ever before seen, looking like an extravagant movie set.

I drove slowly, watching for the right address, my courage diminishing at the opulence as I passed one exceptional place after another, and then: there it was – an awesome building in an ageless British style. Nervously, I drove between a pair of stone lions to the rear of the home, my heart telling me to turn around and go back, but as I slowed to park in the back alongside a garden of exotic plants and trees, I stepped from the car and knocked hesitantly at the door. It opened to reveal Bobbie Geismer in wraparound apron, wooden spoon in hand, throwing her arms around me and crying, “You made it!” My nervousness immediately was allayed and I was ushered through an impressive hallway and up the stairs to a series of halls running from front to back. My room was down one of them, overlooking the remarkable gardens below.

As I settled in, the other members of the family arrived with cheerful greetings and rushes up the stairs to their individual rooms. We met gradually; their demeanor was quite informal, I lost my nervousness at once. With pride they pointed out some photographs of mine that I’d given them earlier, nicely displayed around the house, discovering that they admired me as an artist, and also impressively introducing me around as Professor Kirkish. I settled in.

When the day for the Seder was at hand, we drove to a still larger home hidden among trees off the boulevard to pick up Maunie – the grand dame of the family. Then, as we settled around a table lit with candles and spread with traditional foods, host Alan Giesmer came up from the basement with a dusty bottle of wine, held it out to Maunie and said softly, “It’s the last bottle, Maunie.” I learned later that the special, rare wine had been carted by the case from Germany when they’d fled to America years ago. The taste of the wine was beyond description, as was the entire spectacular ceremony – more than worth the trip itself.

A few days later, Bobbie announced that we had been invited to a special “gift” performance from their friend, the world famed orchestral conductor, George Szell (!) – a traditional Thanksgiving concert in the great Cleveland Concert Hall for a few hundred personal friends, to be played in a small hall within the vast confines of the great hall, where special private performances were occasionally held. Szell himself conducted the Beethoven violin concerto; the entire event was beyond a music lover’s dreams.

As we left, still entranced, my hostess said, “Oh, by the way, we’ve also been invited to a little soiree in George’s honor.” And she added, looking me over critically, “I’m glad you’d dressed so appropriately, Joe.”

How much could I take in a single day? I had sat in on a private performance, watched the great maestro conducting a favorite piece of music, and now this!

We drove to a mansion far larger than others on the avenue, parked, and followed a some hundred well dressed people into a greeting room to a line, to formally greet with prestigious members of the Cleveland Symphony – First Chair musicians, leading to Mrs. Szell – opulent in a gold dress with a Chinese dragon down it’s full length. I did as the rest of the line – taking each hand with a gentle shake as we were introduced down to: the great Maestro himself – hand extended (that hand that had just conducted earlier!) – and with a gracious smile, he asked, “Und Professor Keerkish, vhere ees dees Meeshigan Tech?” I was speechless, lucky that the line moved on and I was freed from possibly making a silly fool of myself.

I walked to a long table set with an ice-carved swan filled with champagne at the center and loaded with an impressive arrangement of flowers and goodies. While trying to decide where to start, I felt a hand on my shoulder – George Szell’s hand! – with the question once again repeated. I was stricken with moose fever; I tried to talk but my lips refused to part! Somehow, though, words finally came out, and my friend Bobbie slipped behind the maestro, listened for a moment, then gave me the circled OK with her fingers and moved on.

As we drove home that evening, Bobbie turned to me and said with a touch of admiration, “You and George had quite a conversation, didn’t you.” Surprised, I asked, “What did I say?” And she just smiled, assuming I was jesting.

To this day, I’ve never recovered from that 10-minute conversation – and it was with reluctance that I finally washed my hand – but it culminated a day in my life I shall never, ever forget.