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The Accidental Violist; Musings of aMusician Mom Op. 2 no. 7

To my Ma- the church (choir) lady, my firstand biggest fan. Rock on!

When I was a tiny tot my mom draggedme along to choir rehearsals at St.Chumsfords. For sitting quietly, the choirdirector rewarded me with a butterscotchdrop from a bowl that sat on the piano.Butterscotch drops were my favoritecandy in the world, so I was highlymotivated to earn that weekly prize. I alsomemorized everything the choir sang.

My next musical memory of St. Chumsfords was the Christmas Pageant the year Iwas a four-year-old angel complete with blonde ringlets, choir robe and tinsel-

wrapped halo. After our four-year-old class sang, I sang with the five year olds, thenwith the adults. The angel next to me poked me with her elbow. Thats not oursong she hissed. I just shrugged my shoulders and kept singing. We dont knowthose songs! she hissed louder. I do, I hissed back, and continued singing. Shesighed deeply and rolled her eyes.

Emboldened by our success, the Sunday School Director made big change in thefollowing years Christmas Pageant. Instead of processing in straight down thecenter aisle, the church school choir would wend its way artistically through thecongregation, walking in formation while singing.

Although the choreography was challenging, everything went fine at the dressrehearsal. On the day of the pageant things were on schedule when suddenly I was

walking down an aisle singing by myself. Apparently at some point in the wendingprocess the other children zigged and I zagged. I looked around for the childrenschoir but all I saw was a forest of tall grownups.

The adult choir rounded a corner and bore down on me. I froze in terror. The lineleader, a friend of my moms, winked at me and grabbed my hand as she walkedby. I fell in step with her and kept singing. Afterwards, all my saviour could talkabout was how I had all the songs memorized. My mom couldnt get a word inedgewise- and didnt have a chance to give me untold grief for messing up thechoreography. Saved by a soprano!

Fast forward a couple of years. I was eight years old, it was fourth grade and (insert

drum roll) time to pick an instrument in school orchestra class. Instrument selectionwas a big topic of discussion on the playground, with most kids adopting a waitand see attitude pending Instrument Trial Week.

I was already set on playing something in the string family. Id been going with Momto the ballet and string quartet concerts since the age of three, so I knew the stringsound and found it appealing. The viola in particular had great allure because theman who played it in the quartet was very tall and thin with a mop of dark hair anda prominent nose. In other words- he was a dead ringer for Abraham Lincoln. As a

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school child in Illinois, where Honest Abes picture was prominently displayed inevery municipal building, I was profoundly impressed. This man was so tall he madethe viola look like a violin and Mom would always point that out.

But we couldnt just cut to the chase and make our instrument commitment rightoff: school policy dictated that we first try each instrument. So I waited patiently

while we honked, hooted and thunked through the brass, woodwind and percussionfamilies, counting the hours until we got to the strings.

Finally the big day arrived- and I was sick and missed the whole trying-the-stringsthing. On my return I told the orchestra director Id already decided on violin orviola. She replied that lots of people had chosen violin and hinted broadly that itwould be spiffy to have another viola player in the orchestra . Although I wasattracted to the glory of being a violinist and always playing the melody, helping outthis kind, beautiful lady who had been my music teacher since kindergarten won outand I agreed to play the viola.

The rest of my grade school orchestra days were fairly unremarkable. We learned

short little ditties and played concerts. I took note-reading in stride. My mom hadwalked me through the notes-on-the-staff concept since Id been singing in churchchoir for several years. All of my friends were in orchestra, and it was fun.

In fifth grade, I began private lessons with the brother of our orchestra director. Agifted player and teacher, he had decades of experience in professional orchestra,university teaching, and studio teaching. Some of the best players in my orchestrastudied with him.

However, being of the old school he did yell on occasion when I wasnt getting itquickly enough. After he yelled at me one time too many, I told mom to phone himand say I wasnt taking any more lessons.

I must have been really steamed, because I not only boycotted private lessons butstopped going to school orchestra. Every day I stalked into the living room andglared at the viola, which lay on the couch in its case, and left the room. Afterabout three weeks of this I walked in one morning, picked up the viola and went offto orchestra. The director was astonished to see me but didnt bat an eyelash.Everyone moved over and I plopped down and played. It had been so long Idalmost forgotten how to read alto clef.

A week or so later I told mom to phone the teacher and tell him I wanted to takelessons again. At my next lesson he acted like nothing had happened; but he neveryelled at me again. Several months later he looked at me and said I knew youd beback.What do you mean? I asked. I knew you were hooked. he replied.

It took me until last week to figure out that insight of his. How in the heck did heknow I was hooked? Then last week a 6th grade student come for her lesson. Afterlistening to the first tune I realized that in the week since her last lesson shed beenmagically transformed from another 12 year old with a violin into a real honest-to-gosh violinist. I cant exactly say how I came to this realization. It wasnt that sheplayed twice as well, or twice as fast. I think she projected a noticeable shift inattitude towards the violin. She even had this certain glow about her. I guessdetecting these subtle nuances is part of the teacher thing.

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Hooked on playing, hooked on teaching, hooked on music- and it all started withMom and butterscotch candy.