The Violin My Dad Bought For Me

"That's a gorgeous violin!" I remember telling my stand partner at a Mankato Symphony concert several years ago.

She smiled proudly. "Thank you! I just had it made to my specifications. My grandma passed away and left me an inheritance of $35,000, and I used it to order a violin built exactly the way I wanted."

My eyes wandered over the shiny varnish, the perfectly fitted strings, and the gleaming chin rest. I held her beautifully balanced, feather-light bow in my hand and swallowed a gulp of envy.

"It's beautiful," I managed.

She let me hold it for a few minutes. I cradled it carefully, secretly terrified that I was holding her inheritance—a $35,000 instrument.

Then, generously, she let me play it.

I'm not sure what I expected. Maybe I thought the heavens would open, Paganini would descend, and I'd be swept into musical ecstasy.

Instead, it felt completely foreign. To me, it just sounded like...a violin.

Strangely enough, I preferred mine.

"How much is yours worth?" she asked.

"$650," I replied meekly, barely making eye contact. "I just had it appraised. My bow is worth about $500, so altogether I guess my setup is worth around a thousand dollars."

I told her I'd been playing that violin for more than twenty years.

As we play the concert, my thoughts wander back in time to the summer when my dad bought the violin for me.

I was fourteen. We were in Aspen, Colorado, at a Suzuki Summer Camp. As part of the camp, I studied with Wendy, a renowned Suzuki teacher who helped build on the foundation my regular private teacher had already given me.

Proudly, I debuted the piece I'd been working on for months: Concerto No. 5, in D major, Op. 22, 3rd Movement by Friedrich Seitz. After hearing me play for the first time, I remember the stunned look on Wendy's face. She calmly set down her violin and gently placed her hands over my ears so I couldn't hear what she was about to say. (I heard her anyway.)

"Your daughter plays too well to be on this rental violin. She needs a better instrument."

Even hearing those words of praise, I remember staring at the ground and nervously twisting my toe inside my tennis shoe.

I was the oldest of eight. I knew my parents were broke. There was no way they could buy me an expensive violin.

But, to my utter surprise, instead I heard my dad smile. "I know. She's been working so hard."

Then he turned to Wendy and promised he'd take me to the violin shop after my lesson.

And the real miracle? He did exactly that.

I was absolutely in AWE. One by one, Dad handed me full-sized violins to try.

Finally, the man pulled a violin from the back of the shelf. "This one is one that I am personally kind of in love with. Its got a really unique sound--a better sound than it should have for this price!"

It sounded full. Vibrant. Chocolatey. Rich. Deliciously warm & comforting like hot tea on a rainy day; it filled my soul and made my heart swell.  It resonated deeply and I knew without a doubt that I had found my new violin.

I carried that violin proudly for the rest of camp. I treasured it.

Wendy had believed in me.

My dad had believed in me.

Maybe, just maybe, I could believe in myself!

Even though money was incredibly tight, he decided I was worth the investment.

I felt like a million dollars.

Fast forward thirteen years.

I'm parked on the side of the road. My violin is in the back seat.

I call my sister.

"How are you doing?" she asks gently, knowing that the program I'd devoted the last thirteen years of my life to had just closed its doors.

I sob on the phone to her. I tell her how I'd poured my heart and soul into every part of it. I'd sacrificed more than I care to admit just to keep my teachers and staff paid over the last several years.

Despite everything I'd done to keep it alive, here I am. I failed. I failed so hard and so spectacularly. I feel ashamed, disheartened, lost. And because she's my sister—and because we've played music together our entire lives—I tell her the truth.

"I think I'm going to smash my violin," I say. "I'm so close. I just feel so broken. I don't think I have the heart to play anymore. I feel so defeated. I'm going to quit everything--bluegrass, teaching, performing. How can I keep going? Everything I worked for is gone."

My sister is quiet.

"I understand that," she finally says. "I think if I were in your position, I'd probably want to smash my violin too and be done with music. But if you need to smash a violin today, grab one of the crappy school violins. Give me yours for safekeeping until you're ready to play again. I love how it sounds and I think you're just having a bad day."

We both laugh. I take a breath. She didn't say I was crazy. She understood.

"Okay," I say.

Then I add, "You know, my violin is only worth $650. Who cares if I smash it? I've always wanted a nicer one anyway."

She grows quiet again.

Then she gently says, "Your violin has always been worth more than that, Mary. Think about all the memories you've made with it over the last twenty years. Think about all the students you've taught. All the concerts you've played."

Now I'm the quiet one.

I'd never really thought of it that way.

I take a deep breath.

I still want to smash something.

But today, it won't be the violin.

Instead, I say a prayer.

And somehow...I feel better.

***No violins were harmed in the writing of this blog, and none will be harmed moving forward. I will add one more thing: my therapist told me it made perfect sense that I wanted to destroy my instrument that night. Oddly enough, hearing that brought me a lot of peace.

Thank God for therapists.