Mozart's Violin

by W E Monroe



  Mozart’s Violin

  W E Monroe

  Copyright 2010 by William E. Monroe

  ISBN: 978-1-4581-5887-1

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  Table of Contents

  Chapter One: Forty Years Forgotten

  Chapter Two: Granpa’s Violin

  Chapter Three: Mrs. Mock and the Lessons

  Chapter Four: Riding the Greyhound

  Chapter Five: Rich Lady Tea Parties

  Chapter Six: Symphony Solo – Almost

  Chapter Seven: The Music Dies

  Epilogue

  Chapter One: Forty Years Forgotten

  I was in my car. Sitting at a stop light dreamily thinking while I waited for the light to change. Then, a totally unrelated thought elbowed its way into my consciousness. - - ‘Mozart's Concerto for Violin and Orchestra in G’...Puzzled, my awareness smoothly shifted back to the ‘here-and-now. Just as smoothly the volume of the car radio’s music increased in my mind and took center stage in my awareness. Classical music flowing from the radio. It was a violin concerto...Somehow, out of nowhere; my mind had attached a title to it.

  The piece ended and the announcer said . . . "That was Mozart's Concerto for Violin and Orchestra in G" . . . I was astonished! Where did that knowledge came from? Good music has always appealed to me, but I can't play any instrument, or even sing.

  Then, a chill went through me--My God, I used to play a violin! . . . I just sat there, stunned. How could a middle-aged man forget years of lessons and playing the violin? . . . The busy intersection, the cars and pedestrians faded from my view. Memories came back in a succession of scenes--like a wide-awake dream. I saw myself at six; wide-eyed, looking at the violin my grandfather had just given me, then looking into his smiling face. Next, an old friend appeared. Mrs. Mock, and she was giving me a violin lesson. Then, when I was about ten or eleven, standing on a stage. A sea of faces stared up as I played Beethoven. Applause, lots of applause. I was proud! I must have been pretty good! The memories insisted that I was good.

  Sitting there in my car, memories bubbled up and flickered like a movie. Then -- horns blaring angrily. The light had changed to green, but I hadn't noticed. Driving away I began to understand. My music and my old violin had been terribly important to me. Then I stopped playing. For some reason losing my music hurt a lot. It hurt so much that I totally forgot I ever played a violin, - - that I even had a violin.

  Chapter Two: Granpa’s Violin

  It was April 1944. I was a six-year-old, gap-toothed boy. Our family eagerly visited Grandpa nearly every Saturday night to listen to the Grand Old Opry. My Daddy and Mama couldn't afford a deluxe radio like Grandpa's pride and joy. That radio was almost as tall as I was and as the velvety words and music flowed from it we stared at the instrument that created not only sounds, but also stirred pictures in our minds.

  When Minnie Pearl came on stage and hollered "HowwwwDEE," in her inimitable way, I clearly imagined the big friendly smile on her face. Every week the radio announcer kidded her about her fancy hat. He made me "see" it. I could even "see" that darned price tag hanging and twisting on a string from its broad, drooping brim.

  Roy Acuff enthusiastically fiddled 'Orange Blossom Special,' and we all slapped time with the music as we imagined his fancy sequined coat. I sat at Grandpa's feet on the shiny-hard oak floor and 'felt' the music and the images reverberating across the room.

  "I'm gonna git me a fiddle and play like that! I'm gonna play on the Grand Old Opry!" I announced to Grandpa with the unbounded optimism of a child, and then looked to my father for his approval. In spite of daddy's silence the fantasy of my future triumphs made me grin with pride. I looked at Mama and Grandma for the encouragement I needed to see on their faces. But, they'd heard my announcement nearly every Saturday night and their faintly amused smiles were the best I could expect. To my daddy, the prospect of his boy someday performing at the Grand Old Opry was about as likely as a phone call from President Roosevelt with an invitation to drop by the White House for a little chat about how to run the war.

  One Saturday evening, I noticed Grandpa's more-than-usual delight in my enthusiasm for the music. When the program was over, he got up and went into the spare room. The closet door opened, and we could hear things being noisily moved around. He was obviously looking for something. He came back in a few minutes; all of us still sprawled around the radio.

  "Billy, come here, I've got something for you," he commanded as he stiffly lowered himself into his chair. Reverently clasped to his chest was a wrinkled brown paper sack.

  Then, with his left hand, the one with the three crooked fingers, he carefully lifted from the bag a violin and its bow. "This was my father's, your great grandfather. He brought it with him when he came to America from Germany in 1884. He gave it to me when I was about your age. I used to love to play it. This violin and its music have always been very special to me."

  Looking sadly down at his left hand with the crooked fingers, "But, I had to stop when that horse bucked me off and I broke my hand. I had to put it away and never played again." Then, in a voice choked with ill-concealed emotion, his sadness faded, and then mingled with hope. "Billy, now it's going to be yours."

  My eyes widened in surprise and awe. "Look, it's a fiddle! For me! Just like the Grand Old Opry!" Grandpa started to hand it to me, but his other large hand gently descended to grasp my arm and solemnly interrupt my joy.

  "No, Billy, it’s not a fiddle! It’s much more, -- it's a violin. For thirty years it's slept in that old brown bag. When you learn to play well, you'll let it sing again. Never forget, Billy, your violin needs to sing. You’ll have to take lessons."

  Years would pass before I really understood his words, but the way he spoke them required more than a promise.

  "It will sing, Grandpa! I'll study hard! I won't forget!" From his big worn chair, he looked deep into my eyes.—I couldn’t understand then, that he was seeing an excited child’s face, with eyes that sparkled with promise of the future for our family. He nodded approval of my vow.

  "One more thing, Billy." He held the instrument tilted toward the light and pointed inside through one of the gracefully curved holes. Glued to the wood was a small piece of paper, yellowed and cracked with age. "That's the name of the man who made this old violin. You can't read it all anymore. This violin is very old and very special."

  Chapter Three: Mrs. Mock and the Lessons

  In June of 1944 my music lessons began. From the dirt streets of our neighborhood, I traveled on the city bus to face the crowded sidewalks and car-honking Saturday bustle of our then-small town, Orlando, Florida. I carried the violin tightly clutched in a new brown paper bag. The carved scroll with the ebony pegs and the pointed end of the bow peeked out of the top.

  On the bus with me were my two older cousins who had, for a year or more, taken me with them into town for the Saturday morning movie at the Rialto Theater. My lessons were close to the theater. From now on, though, I was going to town on Saturdays for my music lessons. Lessons that were more important to me than Gene Autry, Hopalong Cassidy and Tarzan movies.

  Pinned on the pocket of my shirt was the address where I was to meet my teacher, and her name. And, just in case of an emergency, the number of the Yellow Cab Company where my uncle drove a taxi. After my violin lesson, and their movie, I was to meet Robert an
d Beulah at Orange Ave. and Pine St. to catch the bus home.

  "Hold the violin like this," Mrs. Mock said firmly. I did, I thought. "No, no, like this!" I tried again. She tucked her gleaming instrument under her arm and adjusted the position of my scruffy instrument, then stepped back to observe. Frozen in place, chin tightly clamped down on the violin, I quizzically looked back from under my eyebrows. Still not satisfied, she adjusted the position of the fingers of my left hand on the fingerboard.

  "There," she said, at last. "Watch me now. Then you move your bow like this over your E string." Her bow moved lightly over the string, and her handsome violin produced the most beautiful musical note I had ever heard.

  Soon I would be playing 'Orange Blossom Special' on the Grand Old Opry, I dreamed. The strands of my bow scraped crookedly over the string--and the awful screech I produced raised every hair on the back of my neck and a painful grimace on Mrs. Mock's face. I snatched that violin away from my chin as though it was suddenly on fire. What Have I done to Grandpa’s violin?

  Seeing my lower lip quiver in alarm, she took me in her arms, gave me a comforting hug and dabbed with her hanky at the tears of her six-year-old pupil.

  "Billy, your violin is OK. It's not broken. Let me show you." She lifted my old violin with its cracked and dirty varnish to her chin and played a few bars from memory. To hear such beautiful music coming from my violin was a thrill beyond my belief. It was the kind of music Grandpa played on the Victrola after Sunday dinner. The music that caused daddy to find some excuse to go outside.

  "Ohhhh--!, exclaimed Mrs. Mock. The marvelous sounds that violin makes!" Seeing my awestruck expression, she explained. "That music was written by a man named Mozart. He was even younger than you when his music lessons began. He worked very hard and became famous. One of the instruments he played was the violin." Seeing I wanted to hear more music, she brought my violin carefully back to her chin, dreamily closed her eyes and played again, swaying slightly with the music. She finished and lowered the instrument.

  "Billy, Mozart himself would be proud to play your violin." Holding it at arm's length, she turned it slowly with puzzled admiration. Peering inside, "That sure is an old one!" Softly, thoughtfully, she added to herself, "It's a pity we can't read the name of the place it was made." She looked down at me with a twinkle in her eye, "Who knows, maybe this was Mozart's violin."

  She wistfully handed it back to me and the lesson continued. After the lesson I placed my old violin and bow in its brown paper bag. Then I watched, fascinated, as she carefully placed her own shiny instrument in a black leather case with soft velvet lining. The lid silently closed and three brightly polished latches snapped shut.

  I promised myself; one day I'll have a violin case like that.

  Daddy received his draft notice a few months after the lessons began and he left to go to war. His absence made our life at home more difficult, but in spite of the hardship my lessons continued. Mama and Grandpa attended my first three recitals. After an absence of 15 months, in June of 1946 the army discharged my father and he came home from the Philippines. I couldn't wait to play for him and show him how much I'd learned. A few weeks later my chance came to play for Daddy.

  "Elmer? Can Billy play some on his violin for you." Mama smiled tentatively; expectantly. At her interruption, Daddy impatiently put down his beer and lowered his newspaper just a little.

  There was a large sigh of impatience. "A little later, Dorothy." The reply was curt, then he gulped an inch or so of the liquid from the brown Pabst Blue Ribbon bottle and resumed reading the paper.

  "You said you'd listen, last night. Remember? . . . Please? He's practiced so hard while you were gone." Mama persisted carefully.

  "Oh, all right!" Daddy abruptly half-folded, half-crumpled the newspaper and drained the last of his beer from the bottle. "Bring me another beer.

  “Billy, come on. Bring your violin. Your Daddy wants to hear you play."

  Now nearly eight years old, I was standing in the dining room with my instrument at the ready, where Mama told me to wait. I had peeked around the corner and saw the conversation. As I walked stiffly out to stand before him, I wore my best recital smile.

  If he likes my music, I thought, maybe I can ask him for a case for my violin. One with shiny black leather and a velvet lining like Mrs. Mock's. I raised my instrument to my chin and began to play.

  "That's pretty good." Half-heartedly he clapped after the first piece I played.

  "Yeah, that's nice," he impatiently sighed after the second tune. He did not applaud.

  During the third song, the tired muscles of my left arm ached from rigidly holding the violin. Eager to get finished, my concentration slipped. Several notes screeched like fingernails scraped on a blackboard. Alarmed and disappointed at my discords, I glanced at Daddy. The muscles of his jaw tightened as they always did when he was annoyed. His eyes squinted, one completely shut, as he cringed and reached for his beer.

  "O.K., O.K., that's enough for now. I think you need to practice some more. Go practice." He dismissed me half way through my tune. My bow had stopped in the middle of a note and I slowly lowered my violin, still hoping for approval, for encouragement. There was none.

  I left the room, disappointed. There would be no violin case. I would continue to carry my violin in a wrinkled paper bag. From my room I heard Mama's hushed voice admonish my father.

  "Elmer! You should have at least let him finish. He wants you to like his music. You hurt him, bad."

  "You know I cain't stand a squawkin' violin. It ain't fiddle music, Dorothy. That fancy stuff his teacher has him play makes my skin crawl."

  "But Grandpa says he's doing real good with his lessons."

  "Grandpa--Your father--better start minding his own business."

  By the Spring of 1948 I was ten and I'd played in many recitals. My fear of playing before an audience had diminished and I now practiced long hours in anticipation of the applause--if not from Daddy, from Grandpa, Mrs. Mock, and the audiences. Mama basked in the glow from their faces.

  At my lessons Mrs. Mock frequently played a little on my instrument and reminded me of young Mozart and his violin. She reminded me that although my violin was very old, it was extraordinary, perhaps a treasure. She explained that I had a responsibility to my violin. Lovingly, Mrs. Mock taught me to make my violin sing.

  In my mind it was a treasure; it was Mozart's violin.

  Chapter Four: Riding the Greyhound

  When I was ten, in the fall of '48, Daddy told us he had bought a grocery store and we were going to move. He said he'd been working for other people ever since his father had died when he was thirteen. Now, he was going to be a businessman. Finally, he'd make a good living for us. No more carpenter work for him: he was going to do better than that.

  Then we all excitedly climbed into our old car and drove out so we could see our new house and the store. We drove and drove and drove. It was so far; past the north side of Orlando, past Winter Park, past Maitland, past Fern Park all the way out to Casselberry--at least fifteen miles, maybe twenty.

  Back home that evening, while Daddy was out tending the chickens and the rabbits, I asked, "Mama, how am I going to get to my lessons?"

  Mama silently looked down at me, patted my shoulder and sadly resumed clearing the dishes from the supper table.

  About the same time, Mrs. Mock decided to teach at home, and that was almost as far from town in the opposite direction.

  Daddy kept the store open long hours, six days a week. I was only in the fifth grade and my sister, Ruthie, a year behind, but she and I worked in that store after school nearly every day.

  For a while, the distance and the expense interrupted my music lessons. It seemed impossible. Then one day while at Grandpa's house, a boy my age delivered a newspaper. The Grit Newspaper. Grandpa had an idea. He told me how I could earn the money for my lessons and pay for t
he trip on a Greyhound bus.

  Two weeks later my first large roll of newspapers arrived, I loaded them on my bicycle and I was off to sell newspapers. Within a couple of weeks I was earning enough to pay the bus fare and Mrs. Mock.

  At Mama and Grandpa's insistence, Daddy reluctantly allowed me to resume my Saturday violin lessons. Although my time with the teacher was only an hour, the trip took all day. My sister, thought it was unfair that she had to work in the store on Saturdays, and I didn't.

  At 8:27 every Saturday morning, I flagged a Greyhound on the highway in front of the store and rode into Orlando to the noisy, echoing bus station where I bought a ticket for another Greyhound for Pine castle and then I waited. After a ride of ten or twelve miles south, there was still another mile and a half to walk. I always seemed to arrive just as Mrs. Mock was finishing lunch with her family. Just in time for a share of the desert.

  On the long trip home I prayed the bus would get me back to Casselberry before sundown. I prayed that Mr. Johnson remembered to tie up his mean old dog; I prayed that if I could get home in the dark without either falling over, or into, something, there would be some supper left.

  Chapter Five: Rich Lady Tea Parties

  "Billy," daddy said on a Thursday evening at supper, "I hear the big ones are biting over at Lake Apopka. Somebody caught a thirteen pound bass and somebody else caught a ten-pounder. Let's go fishin' Sunday."

  Torn, I looked worriedly at Mama, then back at him. "Daddy, I've got to play for the Casselberry Country Club next week. Mrs. Mock says I've got to practice." I watched as the hurt and anger hardened his weathered face.

  "That goddammed violin!," he muttered. Then, looking directly at Mama, "Why cain't I have a son that does things a father can be proud of?"

  The music my violin sang best was that of Beethoven, Vivaldi, Hayden and Mozart; the classical music I had grown to love. When I played for Grandpa, he'd take me in his arms with a hug and say "That's good, son. I'm proud of you." Sometimes with a faraway look he turned his face away and gently cradled his crippled left hand in the other. Once, I glimpsed the glistening of a tear.