That’s why I love Tuesday nights.
We arrive home from school and after-school activities at about 6:30. After eating dinner and getting a bit of work done, David and I climb into the car, this time, he carries his violin. We drive our way through city streets and a shopping plaza, around a rotary and into darkened, woodsy, suburban roads. It winds past homes with large yards and up a steep hill to the large white colonial that is home to the Suzuki school David has attended since he was six.
He is now fourteen.
He trots into the house, and I follow at an appropriate mother distance. We leave our shoes on the plastic mat provided and pad into the practice room. David opens his violin case, and I settle into a chair for a half-hour to listen to him play, and more importantly, to observe my son.
Jess, his teacher, is twenty-something with the stance of a dancer. She knows him well—he has been coming to her for violin lessons for seven years (his first year was with another teacher—Jess’s partner in a small store, Bridges and Bows, that sells string music, accoutrements, and rents and sells instruments). She has become extended family.
David is presently working on “Scherzo” by Fritz Kreisler. He has just started the piece, so his progress is tentative. Her comments gently tease him; he knows what to do, but he poses teenage angst. She is a good teacher, and he responds to her direction. He has a great ear, so he has never squawked or sawed, and the sounds roll over me and make me smile. He stands with his violin tucked under his chin. His head is buzzed for wrestling season and a smattering of teenage scourge dots his forehead. His voice is low; he sings bass in the chorale. (His older brother’s friends call him “pocket bass” because from their lofty position as seniors, they deem him adorable enough to put into their back pockets.) I begin to see a young man emerge from the string bean (he is 5 feet – 5 inches and only weighs 100 pounds—I know, it’s not fair!)
The lesson ends with a perfunctory bow. David packs up his violin, and we pull on our shoes. We walk out into the night, down the sidewalk to the stone lot where we left the car. Very few cars interrupt the drive home—it is late and very dark. We don’t talk on the drive except a short exchange as we get back into the city.
“I love you, David.”
“Love you too, Mom”
My day is now complete.
Additional note: No—I am not being paid by Bridges and Bows, but I most certainly am happy to shamelessly advertise for them!
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