Violin: finding my musical niche, but hating the practice

After listening to the Backstreet Boys endlessly—to the point where every song was memorized as well as the musical bridges, I decided to make my own music. I took interest in the violin. Hunting around the house, and finally, in the front hall storage closet, behind the snow boots and dusty jackets, I found a beat up violin case. The case was black, its hard textured surface was dry and cracked and the handle was beginning to fray at the edges. It smelled of must and rosin. The metal clasps were a little sticky from years of nonuse, but opened with ease. The violin rested simply in the case: elegant and graceful. The yellow brown color of the wood was striking against the green interior of the case. I traced my forefinger around the curves of the scroll, down the smooth ebony fingerboard and down the tail piece. New strings were needed as well as a new bridge for the instrument to be playable. I lifted it out of the case. The violin was three-fourths in size—a perfect fit for the length of my ten year old arms and once a perfect fit for my mother who played as a child.

Eventually my ten year old arms turned into sixteen year old arms and a new violin was needed. I felt sorry for the old violin. It was like giving away a favorite childhood toy rich in memories and exhausted with play. I learned how to play the Twinkles, Minuet Three, and Ashokan Farewell by Jay Ungar on the small violin. It endured hours of fitful practicing and an attempt at vibrato. The metal clasps snapped open with ease the last time I put the violin into its beat up resting place and said farewell to my friend.