It takes a certain kind of child to draw the bow instead of blow into an instrument, that’s not really my story but my violin has a story.

It was purchased by my grandmother for my Uncle Jerry during the Depression. Take that in for a minute, during the Depression. She paid 5 cents a month, or when she could, so that he could feed his love for music. Do you know how much 5 cents was during the Depression? How the hell did she do that? Well according to my mother she always had her crocheting in one pocket and her rosary in the other.   She made paper flowers with Mrs. Legore and Mrs. Marco (no Terri not Mrs. Spadafranc). And they sold their goods to…we have no idea. Milliners and nunneries and florists and retailers.

My Uncle Jerry grew tired of the violin, more a blow into an instrument kind of guy, so my Mother began to play. She was pretty good she thought ehhmm… She and my first cousin Nancy, who was around the same age as my Mother (it was a big Italian family, don’t ask) played together. In the attic. Because just how bad could Mary Had a Little Lamb be??? After the two hundredth time, you get the picture.

The violin lay dormant in someone’s attic, next to someone’s cedar chest until I entered fourth grade. I took up the violin, or rather it took up me. Yes I was the next generation to drive everyone to distraction with “Mary Had a Little Lamb” but I tried other things too. I do have one memory of being in the orchestra, sixth seat maybe, and during a pizzicato section actually hitting all the right notes. Really, it was a miracle because I was more about how cool I looked carrying it to school then becoming the next virtuoso.

My mother had it appraised at some point, I think when they were downsizing, and it came in at about 400.00. She thought it might be a….something…not exactly a Stradivarius but…something because her old music teacher really wanted it.

I’m not sure if my sister had any interest, I don’t remember her dragging it out. And so it went up in my attic, next to my cedar chest until I moved to Stowe Lane. Did I mention that magical things happen on Stowe Lane? I might have. My dear friend Mary Jo Anzel gifted me with some of her wonderful charcoal pieces. There was a huge study of a man with a cello which just begged to be hung over my fireplace accompanied, of course, by my tiny little almost hundred year old violin.

I don’t know what it’s worth, I don’t care to put a monetary value on it. I know that my Mother loved telling the story just recently, I know that if the house were on fire it wouldn’t be the first thing I grab but it has a rich story and a place in my home. It has a wonderful legacy.