I toss another chunk of wood into the wood stove noticing, as I pick it out of the wood bin, the distinct marks from our wood splitter and I suddenly recognize the piece from my splitting, like an old friend that I inadvertently cut up.
I'm watching the falling icy rain pellets turn to fat balls of snow. The snow on our metal roof has slid down and stopped at the edge, as if, unwilling to hit the ground, it hangs there clinging, a large snow/ice claw, to the roof line.
A student who makes the drive up from NYC each Friday has canceled his lesson already and I'm wondering how many more will follow. We have a customer who is coming from the north to look at instruments and I'm sure this storm has turned her driving into crawling. Like any good Vermonter, I love a snowstorm. Until it keeps me from doing what I want to do.
Fortunately the weather cooperated for David to pick up his cello which was being repaired We emailed him ahead of his lesson to let him know that the cello, which had been in the shop for about a month was back together again and ready for him to play. In the interim we had been able to loan David an instrument so that he could continue to practice, play and have lessons, during the repair time.
The day of the accident, he came for his lesson and found the damage that had occurred earlier in the day from his case being blown over in the parking lot. After assessing everything, we talked about his choices; to have his cello undergo extensive repairs, or purchase a new instrument. Some of the decision rested on insurance factors of course, but at that crossroad I could see him thinking about how easy it might be to simply purchase a newbie. After careful thought, he decided to repair his instrument.
He had used the loaner to practice each day to play in lessons and even to perform in the winter recital. It had served him well and he had gotten used to it, finally. The cello that was loaned to him was about ten years old: a baby in cello years. The cello that he had originally purchased from us was over one hundred years old. It bears the battle scars of the well-played; worn areas where left arms have rested over time, nicks and scratches from the bow being dropped and various dents in the edge. Often, when talking about or showing an old instrument, Paul and I feel the need to address age in the appearance of the cello to customers. Acknowledging that in music, like the rest of life, looks do matter.
David lifted (carefully) the loaner out from it's case and handed it to me. I could see a brief moment of hesitation as he put it into my hands. Paul came in from the shop with David's cello and David lit up with recognition at his old friend. But the reunion was just beginning.
As he sat down to play he passed his hands lovingly across the top of the cello. Wizard that is he, Paul had also managed to fill and cover some of the recent dings on the face of the instrument. So, in a sense, the cello had restorative AND cosmetic work a cello face-lift, if you will.
The new kid sat on the stand in the corner, a bit forlorn, as David began to play his “new” old cello, And as he drew his bow across the strings, his mouth dropped open. His instrument had always been amazingly resonant - as a cello ages, the winter grains harden helping give it that complex sound we all love, however, the fact that it had a new neck mated, precisely, to it's body, made the resonance even greater. Every note was round and full with beautiful overtones. Looking around the room, everyone was wearing huge grins, the biggest being David's.
He pulled the cello away from him to look at it. There it stood, slightly small and dark with it's Germanic coloring interlaced with bumps and bruises. As I looked at it, I thought I detected the slightest amount of pleasure from it under our admiring gazes.
In the corner stood the younger, shinier, smooth-faced cello. It filled the stand with its taller body and broader shoulders. By all accounts shouldn't that be the cello most worthy of David's love? And yet, there was David stroking the (albeit) smaller shoulders of the old lady. And when she sang, we could hear the years and years of experience, of struggle, of wisdom in her voice.
And there was no contest.
Happy Valentine’s Day- Love the one you're with.
Melissa Perley