I have to confess: there’s something you don’t know.

I never talk about it. (It just never seemed pertinent.)

When Susan and I watch Antiques Roadshow and some guy shows up with a dust-coated guitar he unearthed from the attic of the house he just bought, I yell out its date, and it’s make and model. I’m always right, in a savant-like way.

“That’s a Martin ooo-28H,” I say to Susan. “Prewar. Nickel Grover tuners. Worth $30,000 unless someone futzed around with it.”

Eight seconds later, it’s appraised at $29,671, and Susan looks at me with a twisted, terrified look on her face.

Once, some guy showed up ratty old mandolin that was so old the case looked like it was shedding from the inside out.

I took a sip of wine.

“That’s a 1923 Gibson F-5,” I said. ” If it’s signed by Lloyd Loar, it’ll be worth $100,000, easy. Especially since the case is original.”

Eight seconds later, there it was: a $100,000 appraisal thanks to the signature of Loar, the builder, who essentially changed the sound of American roots music.

“You’re insane,” Susan said, rolling her eyes.

It’s a weird thing, but it makes sense; I come from a long line of music geeks. My paternal grandmother was a concert pianist. My late cousin Harris could play any instrument he touched, although favored what he once called mountain-style Jesus music