Behold The Squeakening

When I turned 40, I asked for a cello for my birthday. In the way back time, before the interwebs, when I was in 5th grade, I desperately wanted to play cello with the junior high orchestra teacher. I remember in Kindergarten some old person (who was likely not old at all, but when you’re 5 it’s pretty hard to distinguish age beyond “kid” and “old”) brought their cello into our class. I have zero memories about the person, but I remember the feel of the wood, the twang of the strings. Before nap time and after story time, each kid had a chance to draw the bow across the strings one time. That deep, resonant note was pure magic that made me shiver. I still remember listening to the tone fade before the next kid had their chance.

So, when the orchestra teacher came to talk to us 5th graders about what music program we wanted to join in 7th grade (in my district, junior high was 7-8th grade and everyone was required to take a music class: band, orchestra, choir, or music appreciation), I wanted to play cello SO BADLY.

We lived out in the country at the time, and my 11 year old mind didn’t really grasp the concept of renting an instrument and private lessons after school, or the money involved. My parents pointed out that I hated classical music at the time (I did, but I adored movie soundtracks, and did NOT realize that the same instruments played both), and were honest about not having the flexibility to have me stay after school multiple days per week. So, I waited until 7th grade and joined the band. I played alto sax, poorly, and discovered a massive and lifelong distaste for jazz. Sorry jazz enthusiasts, I just hates it precious. I set the idea of playing any instruments aside.

Anyway. Many many many moons later, I turned 40. And I received a cello kit (cello, bow, resin, stand) for beginners.

And it sat, untouched and unloved because I am not a YouTube learner and couldn’t string, bridge, or tune it without help that first time. I looked at it and dreamed and didn’t have the time or available funds for lessons (particularly since there wasn’t anyone giving lessons in my city, and I wasn’t able to prioritize my time to go into Minneapolis or the UofM at the time).

Then there was cancer, and treatment, and Covid, and a new relationship, and a wedding, and moving. The last few years has been…a lot, both good and bad.

However, the city I moved to has a huge music program in the schools and in the community, so a-HA I found a fabulous (and patient) cello teacher in town, who’s been dealing with me almost every Friday afternoon for a year. My poor cello sat for five years. Apparently this can make the strings and bow hairs squeaky and brittle. We’ve since restrung with new ones, but my bow probably needs to be re-haired. I try not to think about where the hair comes from (horse tails).

I squeaked and screeched my way through almost the entire first book of Suzuki for Cello. My bow grip still sucks, my fingers often aren’t strong enough on the strings to make good clear notes unless I’m going at a freaking glacial pace through a song. So. Much. Screeching. Particularly the A string. Whyyyyyy.

Today, in particular, sucked and I may have hollered more than one AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAARRRRRRRGHHHHHH in frustration. But it’s still a zillion (yes, for my particularly fussy family members who want exactitude instead of hyperbole, I do mean a zillion times, perhaps even more. Infinitely, even) times better than I was a year ago. I’m sort of barely starting to be able to read notes and such.

And while I squeak a ton, I occasionally get a note that feels exactly like that magic. That feels pretty good, although I keep telling my teacher that no, I have NO interest in any sort of student showcase or concert or any sort of performance. No thank you. This is something I do for me. It took me 30 years to follow up on that kindergartener’s immediate fascination and adoration of the cello and give her a chance to play.

Worth it. Squeaks and all.