| first woke up at the age of six. It began with an itch in my leg. My left leg. But somehow | knew | wasn't supposed to scratch it. Although my eyes were closed, | was standing up. In fact, | was standing on a huge stage. And | was playing the violin. | was in the middle of playing the “Vivaldi Concerto in A Minor.” | was wearing a Little Lord Fauntleroy suit-ruffled white silk shirt with puffy sleeves, black velvet short pants with ivory buttons and matching vest-white socks and black patent-leather shoes. My hair was platinum blond and wavy. On this particular Saturday evening—January 14, 1939-I was in the process of becoming the youngest concert artist in any field ever to perform at Carnegie Hall. But all | knew was that | was being taunted by an itch. An itch that had become my adversary. | was tempted to stop playing the violin, just for a second, and scratch my leg with the bow, yet | was vaguely aware that this would not be appropriate. | had been well trained. | was a true professional. But that itch kept getting fiercer and fiercer. Then, suddenly, an impulse surfaced from my hidden laboratory of alternative possibilities, and | surrendered to it. Balancing on my left foot, | scratched my left leg with my right foot, without missing a note of the “Vivaldi Concerto.” HOUSE_OVERSIGHT_015041