One of my favorite childhood stories was Mom‘s tale of her violin lessons as a teen.

She’d make us giggle when she told us her practice time would set their dog to howling.

But when she shared that her violin teacher scolded, “Please! I have ears!” it made me sad.

Now that I’ve come upon this autobiographical poem she wrote decades later, I’m sadder still to know more details about her violin lessons.

After All

In the beginning I knew nothing
but a child’s desire

By the summer fireplace
I stroked the round red pillow
with the paddle souvenir
only the cicadas were talking

You played piano
at sixteen saving enough to buy a real one
I started lessons
alas the dog howled
the worthy teacher admonished Please I have ears
we would never play piano and violin together

Still I loved the music
but I turned to write more plays and poetry
and left the violin alone

Only last night a summer concert in the church
the violinist shone
the open doors and windows
ferried her music out
and the cicadas’ in

~ joan vayo, August 18, 2006

Decades earlier, probably during the 18 months after their wedding and while Dad was serving in Korea, she wrote this short story:

Gifts

Aaron would be a violinist, and this before he was sixteen years old. He was the eldest of three sons; it was his early craving to be an example to the younger boys. Peter and Jacob had great legs and lungs, and were determined to excel only at schoolboy sport. Their brother stood them outside the fence many times to chide them with their folly.

The master who instructed Aaron was a charcoal-bearded professor from the old country. He had a reputation and, to afford this reputation, Aaron delivered for the dairy. Herr Angelmann was his name, and he would lecture briefly on its pronunciation with his rolling tongue. Because Aaron was quite articulate he became immediately popular with the musician.

When Aaron was fifteen and in his fifth season with Herr Angelmann his father died. The boy wept, not over the death of the old man who was slovenly and guzzled his broth, but over the inevitable decision of abandoning his musical career. Herr Angelmann, an impractical sort, begged his reconsideration. Peter and Jacob continued running and cheering inside the school fence. One dark evening Aaron’s mother economically splintered his violin for kindling. It was decided. Aaron would be no musician; he had become a farmer. The family gave him a pitchfork and shovel on his sixteenth birthday. Herr Angelmann gave him his tears.

~ Joan Cassidy Vayo, circa 1953

And what happened to Mom’s violin?

She kept it stored away in the attic of the many homes she and Dad lived in for the next 70 years. Gary and I brought it home when we finished clearing out their Connecticut home in 2021. The case still holds fast, despite the split seams.

Inside that case, Mom’s violin has fallen apart, into multiple pieces. When I gently lifted them out of their case, I noticed two sticky trails on the dark blue velvet that must have dripped on the lining following someone’s effort to glue the pieces back together.

They looked like tears.

“After All” © 2006 (stanza 5 was left out for privacy) and “Gifts” ©1953 Joan Vayo. All rights reserved.

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