Mostly I remember that he was considered a little weird by most; albeit a genius. A glass blower by trade, raised in poverty, married against the wishes of his future in-laws.
When I was very young, Grandpa Wurzer brought the magic smell of his pipe and the haunting mysticism of the train set in the musty attic. As I grew older, into my teens, I remember the smell of fresh roses and vegetables in the garden, the hot days paddling the canoe down the Genesee River, the sound of his accordion, the ukulele, and the way he always nudged me when he told a joke. I remember being fascinated by his inventions; the homemade fire alarm, the bees nest remover, the tools that he designed for the jobs that needed to be made easier.
This is his music.
These are the sounds of his now departed soul.