My father played the violin!
Yes, indeed: farmboy though he was, he had a violin, and he
took mail-order lessons. I inherited Dad’s violin, and the stack of 1920s
mail-order lesson plans he learned from.
I never heard my father play. But I went through his old lessons,
and I learned basic fingering at least. I never learned to play well, but I
could probably still scratch out Frere Jacques or My Country ‘Tis of Thee.
Charming!
I should really take it up again.
On the other hand: there is nothing in the world worse than
a beginner violinist. No, strike that: there’s nothing in the world worse than
living in the vicinity of a beginner
violinist. The screeching and squawking, if you’ve never heard it, is unearthly. And it just goes on and on.
Maybe, for Partner’s sake and the sake of all our neighbors,
I will leave the violin alone, and take up something quieter.
Maybe needlework.
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