I was in the 5th grade when a group of musical instrument sellers descended upon our public school.
We all stood in line and the Musical Experts looked at us appraisingly, examining the length of our arms and fingers, judging our native talent, and I am guessing, estimating the size of our parent’s wallets.
“You have such nice long fingers.” The Woman told me with a serious smile. “You’d made a good violin player.”
So I went home and told Mom that I would make a good violin player. Much to my surprise within a matter of days I was the proud owner of a new violin. This musical instrument was bought at a Music Store, a place I always associate with the smell of bow rosin, because that was the primary item I would buy at the shop.
Looking back now, this purchase of a new violin for me is completely baffling. With the exception of underwear, we seldom bought anything new. Goodwill and the Salvation Army Store were our second homes. Pawn shops were among my Dad’s favorite hang outs-though I seldom recall him either pawning or buying much of anything. There were few items that Mom thought worth buying new, carpet, TVs, and apparently, violins.
There was an orchestra class for all of us who had gone out and bought violins, violas, and cellos. There was one rich kid who played the piano and another who played the Bass. The class had simple music lessons, a few books on the rudiments of such classics as Mary Had a Little Lamb and Twinkle, Twinkle Little Star and a small collection of stickers we were to place on the fretboard so we would know where to press our fingertips as we tried to create music. The class did a pretty good job of teaching a handful of songs and The Scales. Then we were off to the 6th grade.
In the 6th grade we were corralled together with many other aspiring orchestra players from around the city-and we were told to take Private Lessons. We were given a list of names of suitable teachers to coach us on our various instruments. Mom said that we could not afford Private Lessons and that I would have to learn from The Teacher at school. The Teacher at school was a nice enough man who appeared to me, at the time, to be just this side of Noah’s nine hundred years.
He had neither the time nor the interest to give individual lessons to his many students. His main objection seemed to be to put on a number of shows and have enough students who could afford private lessons that he would not be too embarrassed by their performances. I was part of a large group of Understudies who would never be called up to actually play.
Over the next three years I was a member of the All City Orchestra and I performed in a number of Concerts which contained enough other musicians to cover the fact that about a third of us had never moved beyond the Mary Had a Little Lamb stage. The fact that we were made 3rd Seats and given music which had no theme, no melody, and no clear reason for existence did not help our fragile young egos.
By the time I got to the 9th grade my days of playing the violin were numbered. Our 9th grade teacher was a slightly insane egomaniac from Abilene, TX who came to the big city of Fort Worth to make a name for himself.
We were a constant disappointment to him.
He had a hundred member orchestara in Abilene and he only had the fifteen or so of us. His orchestra in Abilene had won awards. We coudln’t play Happy Birthday without sheet music. Out of the fifteen or so students, three of us could have been called musicans, and I was not among those three.
After a year of listening to what a bunch of losers we were, most of quit Orchestra-though to be honest the Mad Conductor was just the last straw, not the whole reason for our surrender. He was just one more person who expected us to be masters of our instruments, when the fact of the matter was most of us had never learned to play. Even The Conductor’s return to his beloved Abilene was not enough to get any of us to return to Orchestra Class.
I still have my violin, laying in a corner, sad and neglected. Well, laying in a corner anyway. I have thought from time to time that I should drag it out and find myself some YouTube videos on how to play the violin. Maybe I could finally master something more than Mary Had a Little Lamb.
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When my mother died in 1987, we bought the house I was raised in from my father, who did not want to continue to live there. With the house came the family piano, and today it is a constant reminder that I won the battle over quitting piano lessons with my mother after three years of lessons. I was horrible at it, mainly because of my impatience, and that is probably why my mother finally relented. I have often thought about taking lessons again but in all honesty probably won’t. We keep the piano though, just in case.
One of my favorite all time films is Groundhog Day-in which the not so nice weatherman is forced to relive the same day over and over. While doing this, he decides to learn to play to the piano to impress a girl. I think something like that needs to happen for most of us to learn to play an instrument.
So who knows, we might fall into time loops and finally have the time to learn to play well.