Joyce Newcomb

My only Christmas wish when I was thirteen was for a full-sized violin, not a Stradivarius but one with a clarity and resonance worthy of a concert violinist. I had outgrown the 3/4 violin, once my father’s, the one I had found hidden away in the attic. I loved learning to play. I wasn’t a concert violinist yet, but a girl can dream. That Christmas morning, among all the many presents beneath the brightly lit tree, there was just one with my name on it— an oblong leather case tied with a big red bow. Cradled inside was a violin the color of dark honey. I lifted it with reverence and began playing carols while my sister unwrapped their gifts.

The violin sang with its young vibrant voice until my sophomore year. That fall, when I was relegated to fifth chair in the high school orchestra, I realized I wasn’t concert violinist material and put down my bow. Afterwards, I played at family gatherings, although not often and finally not at all.

My sons were young when I put the violin away in the back of my closet, where it languished for decades. No one, not my sons or later my granddaughters, had any interest.  But when I dragged it out three years ago, ready to let it go, my guitarist son spoke up, offering to have it restored and restrung.  True to his word, a few months later, he put it my hands again. The violin, its voice now mellow with age, sounded sweet.

I, perhaps wiser with age, rediscovered the simple joy of making music.