As people keep reminding me, I've lived a blessed life.

Opportunities to learn have always been there, and usually from some amazing teachers.

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One of my best teachers (and also one heck of a storyteller) was my grandfather, Alfred ("A.C.") Erlandson, or "gramps" as my brothers and me affectionately called him.

Now granted, my grandmother, Lucille, was a schoolteacher, so you'd think I'd have been enlightened on many an occasion by that bulb. But during our school years, we got plenty of that in the big, red brick building, so her lessons fell mostly on deaf ears.

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And deaf ears were hardly a problem with gramps. He had stories to tell in abundance. My brothers and I spent plenty of afternoons every summer in his yard, sitting in lawn chairs under a big cottonwood listening to gramps spin a tale or three about his life.

And what a life he had. Gramps was a logger (his logging truck served as the backup town fire truck well into my high school years), a postal carrier and, much to my interest, a musician.

Gramps told us often of concerts he and other musicians performed throughout Montana and Canada, dances formal and much less so. A self-taught violinist (he always called it the fiddle) and accordionist, gramps would take the opportunity from time to time and grab an instrument and belt out a tune for us little tikes.

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In the fifth grade, I took up the clarinet, and after much practice, performed in a couple of school concerts. It was apparent to me at that time that either I was not gifted musically like gramps, or I'd have to find a more suitable, more inspiring instrument through which to portray my melodic message.

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About two years later, a couple buddies and I took guitar lessons, and I stuck with it long enough to learn some chords. Again, I was stymied by the lack of desire to spend hours toiling away at an instrument, in search of something resembling music.

About the time I started wondering if the talent just didn't reside inside me, fate threw me a curveball. A newly-arrived high school band teacher secured funding for some new instruments, most importantly a bass guitar and amplifier, and a very nice drum set.

I took to the drums like a moth to a flame. After only a few months, I knew I liked them enough to plunk down my hard-earned cash to buy a nice 5-piece drum set and cymbals. I was off and running.

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I practiced in my room in the basement of our house for hours on end. Whenever I heard a new sound on the radio I had to learn, I'd find a few bucks to go buy the album or eight-track (Kids - ask your parents what these are). And luckily, I had a mom that actually liked listening to me practice, so volume wasn't a problem.

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All this time, gramps was still playing music with a local group. It wasn't long before he started hinting that I should sit in with them and see how it goes - you know, just in case they need a backup drummer.

It wasn't long after that I was called into service, playing tunes my grandfather grew up playing in all those dance halls and weekend festivals almost a half decade before.

Not that it was all fun and games. For one, when we'd play a bar, I was the only one under the legal drinking age - way under, so free drinks meant a Coke for me. Also, gramps was a stickler for professionalism, and his head would jerk around and stare at you if you happened to miss an intro or bend the beat a bit.

Still, the chance to perform with one of your relatives can be pretty special. Even after we moved out of state years later, a visit from gramps meant tracking down an accordion and picking up the drumsticks. By then my twin brother had picked up the guitar and he did what he could to find a few chords that fit into the tune.

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I guess the moral is, sometimes inspiration comes from unlikely sources. If you'd told me early in life that one day I'd be onstage with gramps, I would probably have laughed you out of the room.

Since then I've played in numerous bands and symphonies. All the while being inspired by the musical ability I know resides under my skin as evidenced my gramps' lead.

When gramps died, I was asked what I wanted from the estate. My request was for anything music related, and I got a few items that were from his time playing earlier in life.

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Rest in peace, gramps. I'm still working on those intros and a steady beat.

Jerry Hitchcock is a copy editor for The Press. He can be reached at 664-8176, Ext. 2017, or via email at jhitchcock@cdapress.com.