An open and shut case

The island of misfit musical instrument rentals will soon have a new resident in the form of a viola. 

It's not the viola's fault.

No, it's a matter of irreconcilable differences between a third grader with no work ethic and a stringed instrument that refuses to be a drum kit. ...

In an ideal world in which good intentions are sown, nurtured and harvested in pesticide-resistant, sun-kissed soil, a viola-playing third grader would now be sitting sidesaddle on a tree branch surrounded by a clutch of besotted celestial angles. Down at ground level, his parents would be holding hands and stealing glances at each other as if to affirm, "You know, add it up — the cost of the instrument rental, the book, the DVD, the music stand, and the lessons — and we've not only made the greatest $350 investment of our impoverished lives, but we've literally consecrated ourselves to the Lord through the intercession of both Mary and her little lamb."

The third grader would be moving the bow across the strings of his rented viola to tenderly awaken Frère Jacques himself.

Are you sleeping? Are you sleeping?

Brother Jack, Brother Jack?

Morning bells are ringing. ..

C, G, C …

… Ding, dang, ding.

"Come on, old boy. Rise and shine!"

The music would carry through the heavens to the sleeping ears of Frère Jacques bedded down on a straw mattress in some cloud-shrouded mountaintop monastery. He would awaken, gargle some mouthwash, put on his robe, make his way to the window and feed breadcrumbs to a sparrow.

All the while, back at the base of that tree, the third grader's music teacher would be giving radio interviews.

"We tell parents all the time, 'Just keep at it,'" she'd be saying. "Children crave monotony. They're keen to undertakings that promise delayed gratification. Case in point: that kid up there on that branch. He practiced five hours a day, every day, including that day when all his friends were given free pony rides downtown. But look at him now — just look at him go!"

But back to reality, how to summarize?

Oh, here's how: Our boy will not be occupying the Charles S. Dana chair for the Boston Symphony. He begged for lessons. We paid for them. We got caught up in it all, a potential violist in the family. We begged him to practice. He didn't and still doesn't. So we've decided to resume our previously scheduled program of feeding and nurturing him as if he will not be a classical musician. And we're out $350.

But you're not satisfied with that explanation, are you? You're probably wishing to ask, "Oh, but what really went wrong, and how may others learn from your experience?"

Well, let's begin with this: Beyond our dreams of raising a child prodigy who would be capable of pulling out his viola at family gatherings, squatting down and launching into a sonata that, in that trademark deep, rich tone, could sum up the tragic human condition in whimpers and wails — bearing witness to the truth that we are alone in this dark, dark universe … all alone, so sad, so very, very sad and alone — yep, beyond all the excitement of signing the boy up for viola lessons, there was still a viola to be learned, and that's where things fell apart.

He flipped open the lid of the hard-shell case, and there she was: mysterious, unknowable. He picked her up like a minstrel rather than a maestro, strumming her like a carny monkey. 


Tautly bound, womanly shaped, a gracefully assembled fragile thing, the viola will play the hussy to no human. She expects your full attention, to be held with care, jaw on the chin rest, and courted patiently beginning with an "Open D."

Who the heck has the patience for that? Not him.

Arguments? Yes, we had those. (Interesting to do the math: Father, mother and third grader managed to max out on all possible permutations and combinations for argument among three people. We've left unresolved our existential disagreements on the balance between fun and hard labor and about whether the viola is just a dumb-stupid violin wanna-be.)

The celestial angels probably did a flyby in September when our boy first started shadow bowing. They probably checked in again in October when they heard his creaky interpretation of "Rolling Along." Who knows where they are now. Probably preparing for the upcoming Black Sabbath reunion tour.

And Frère Jacques? He has been permitted to oversleep for a good month now.

And his music teacher? We don't know if she really exists. We drop him off to school saddled with his viola, his stand, and his Essential Elements 2000 Plus DVD book. He reemerges at the end of the school day with his viola, music stand and Essential Elements 2000 Plus DVD book. We have to assume his music teacher exists. But it doesn't matter anyway. We don't talk about the viola anymore.

The rental expires in January. He hasn't even learned the mnemonic for the five main lines of the Treble Clef: "Every Good Boy Drums Fine."

I mean "Does,"  not "Drums" — Does Fine ... 


Every Good Boy Does Fine.


Crap.