By Kerri Havnen Gordon
For the most part, the children in the sixth-grade orchestra looked very tidy. Boys sported pressed shirts and belted slacks. Girls wore patent leather and velvet. Our own boy, though, a half-head taller than the other musicians, was all gangly with his shirt hanging out and had a nasty case of bedhead I hadn’t noticed that morning.
Once the kids started playing, however, our child stood out for another reason. When his violin bow went up, all the others went down. When he zigged, everyone else zagged. He claimed to know “Perpetual Motion Holiday,” but we were skeptical.
Since our son was more comfortable with a soccer ball at his feet than with a bow in his hand, my husband and I were just happy that he was still playing. He had chosen the violin as his instrument the year before, and we were delighted when my husband’s mother gave us the early 1900s violin she played when she was growing up.
Despite periodic servicing, the violin had fallen into disrepair. The strings were broken, the finish dull and moths had long ago eaten the horsehair on the bow. In such a state, the instrument offered no hint of its history or its promise. But when we had it repaired, we were pleased to find that it had a lovely, clear sound that was far smoother than any new student instrument we could have purchased. Soon our son was coaxing tentative notes from the strings. The violin had awakened from decades of slumber.
A dozen concerts later, my husband and I sat in the front row recently at an eighth-grade orchestra performance. Our son looked slightly more put together than at those first concerts, fortunately. There was no bedhead, but the only black shoes that still fit were his indoor soccer cleats with white athletic stripes on the side. This was especially noticeable since his black dress pants were too short due to the inch he had grown in the previous month.
All was forgotten when the music teacher raised her baton and the orchestra began to play. “It’s Pachelbel’s Canon,” I whispered to my husband and then added, “the song the string quartet played during our wedding.” I wasn’t sure he remembered. Twenty-two years is a long time.
The kids played beautifully and I couldn’t take my eyes off our not-so-little violinist. Focused on his music sheet, he moved his bow in unison with those around him. I was so proud of him, and suddenly I flushed from the significance of it all.
Here he was, playing his parents’ wedding song on his grandmother’s violin. She could never have guessed when she played the violin as a girl that she would watch her grandson play the same instrument 60 years later. And 22 years ago, when I fixed my eyes on my soon-to-be husband as I walked down the aisle to the strains of Pachelbel, I could never have guessed that, all these years later, we would sit hand in hand in a junior high gymnasium and watch our son play the same music.
Ah, full circles. It’s enough to take your breath away at times. Three connected generations, an old violin and a remembered song were all it took for me to grasp that this was special, this was memorable.
At the end of the Canon, our boy lowered his violin and bow to his lap. He looked over to us and broke into his characteristic grin. I don’t think he could see that my eyes were a little misty, and that’s OK. He’s only 13. He’s got plenty of time for nostalgia.
Gordon writes The Living Experiment monthly for the Town Crier. E-mail: livingexperiment@pacbell.net
