There was an old table in our dairy barn made from a retired door.

It wasn’t much to look at. The hinges had been removed long ago, and the surface carried the scratches and marks of years of use. But to a young boy working barn chores, that door became something far more interesting.

One day, I took a pencil and carefully drew piano keys across the surface.

Not a perfect keyboard, mind you. Just enough black and white lines to suggest the real thing. Then I flipped over a plastic five-gallon pail, sat down in front of my makeshift instrument, and turned up the green tractor radio my dad had won in a contest at the UFA.

Suddenly, the dairy barn had a concert stage.

My father believed cows milked better when music was playing. I’m not sure where he...

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