| 9/09/2001 My Mother's Violin by Nora Steiger Handcrafted in Germany in the 1850's, my mother's violin has accumulated a certain amount of character from it's journeys and experiences. Its quaint and curious shade of scarlet speckled amber is dulled in places from centuries of use and love, and minute scratches and scars mar it's shapely body. (It has had a life or two in its exsistence). Sometimes, when the player sings her soul through the ancient instrument, the violin recalls it's past, and one can hear the whispers of memories in the wailings of the bow; the wind and rain over the seas that had carried it to America resonate between its maple walls. Such an expressive creation tells great tales of life and the owners of it. The violin's appearance itself tells a story of what it has known in its life. The varnish that is worn away from the fingerboard tells that it has been played for years and years. Minor scuffs and scars tell that an accident has befallen it, perhaps some careless owner permitted it to fall too sharply against some hard surface, or perhaps it struck a child's fancy to attempt to play a song, and by unfortunate occurance the tiny fingers could not control the posture of the violin and it slipped away to be knocked against a disagreeable object. Perhaps it had been bumped and thumped about on the lower deck of a cargo ship many years before on its expedition across the seas to America. The chin rest that has been worn so smooth tells that the violin has been loved and has sung for the hearts of the players far too many times to count. Innumerable tales are told through the medium of a few shapely maple carvings. Not only is it apparent what sort of livelihood the violin has experienced, but it can also be seen what sort of a person would deign to share the livelihood of such a mystic creature. The owners, not only my mother, but all else who possessed the violin before, would have to have been very deeply natured, determined people in order to fulfill its purpose of musical expression. It takes years to master the beautiful sound required to sing emotion through the instrument, and a very expressive person to wish to work so hard to share themselves with the world in such a way. The former owners of the violin would have to have been very much like the violin itself, very beautiful, vivacious, and full of emotion to share. There are details and pieces of the violin's history that may never be known except by the people who were alive during the time that they occurred; yet somehow this does not necessarily dim its illumination of the past. When did the violin travel to America? How exactly did it arrive in a music store in San Francisco where my mother bought it? Was it brought to America by immigrating Germans, and then brought west by pioneers a generation later? Some things will never be known. The violin has outlived the many who have loved and been comforted by it. Yet, even though the entire story will never be completely told, the violin softly speaks a great many things about its past. The previous owners left faint engravings of themselves in the music, and they can be seen from time to time when it is played. The violin tells the story of what it has endured across the vast seas of time, and of the people that were lent its voice to use for their own, when words were not enough to weep what bled within, or to sing what thrived within. It tells the story of life, and how it was lived. Though the violin is only wood and varnish and a horse haired bow, it sometimes strangely resembles humanity, and from time to time, a face can be seen weaving in and out of the music as the notes drift away on the winds |