Magpie and Muttonfly

{Look at that bow! I'm a horrible mother. Sigh.}

My weekend ended on a high note–with the concert of a friend.  I still remember the first time we heard him play.  My mother told me the son of a co-worker would be providing entertainment at a Christmas party.  A little boy, tickling the ivories, isn’t that cute?  Of course, it didn’t take us long to realize there was nothing little about his performance. 

Now he’s all grown up.   

He and a friend–cellist and fellow Stanford-graduate–held a concert yesterday afternoon.  They performed Bach, Beethoven, and Rachmaninoff.    

I’m not so familiar with Rachmaninoff.  No doubt learning the piece can bring a grown man to tears; listening, however, endues power.  So powerful in fact that I literally jumped from my seat.  That’s right, I jumped straight in the air.  Though humiliating, it couldn’t be helped.  I just wasn’t quite ready for that forte.   

Which brings to mind a particular orchestral workshop…

Each year, you see, area high schools would join together and learn from a great conductor.  That year, our conductor was a wiry man, with spectacles perched precariously atop his nose, and a mass of white hair that stuck every which way, but down.  The first day he was intent on hammering in the finer points of dynamics:  bending down he would whisper, pia-niss-i-mo; standing tall, he would thunder, FOR-TISS-I-MO — with a fist pump for good measure.  We, of course, snickered.  

Before we knew it, however, we were doing the same … 

pianissimo 

FORTISSIMO 

All together now … 

pianissimo 

FORTISSIMO 

Unfortunately, that particular conductor fell from podium on the morning of the second day {he must have been a tad overzealous with that fortissimo}.  He was not seriously injured mind you, but he did not return. 

Just imagine the things we could have learned if only he’d stayed.  After all, to this day, whenever I hear a piece that rises in volume, I want to pump my fist in the air, and loudly exclaim, FORTISSIMO! 

Of course, any skill may very well have faltered by now.  Still, when I see the likes of Josh and Nick I can’t help but want to pick up my instrument.  And I usually do.  I pick it up–check for warping, tighten the bow, tune the strings, and play a song that I’m assuming sounds akin to an animal dying a slow, painful death by the way my cats run for the hills. Seriously.  One little song and it takes DAYS for them to recover. 

Lucky for them, when I opened my case this morning I found my bow in disarray {I looked for bugs; I did.  I found nary a one … though it still kinda freaks me out}. 

My poor old violin.  Perhaps I’ve abused her quite enough.  Perhaps it’s time to take her in … tune her up … and let her play more than once every five years … perhaps …