Santa's Last Christmas

 

  

The long folding tables have been decked with plastic tablecloths patterned with huge red Poinsettias. Tinsel garlands have been taped along the walls. A dusty Christmas tree has been set up in the corner with huge fake golden parcels under it. They have been shaken to death by all the kids. The biggest one has a side kicked in when one of the kids realised they were props and there would be no PlayStation under the Mission Christmas tree for anyone. An old guy in a flannel shirt, boots and jeans sings Christmas carols into a microphone and accompanies himself on a red accordion. As people start to get up and leave. He plays Rockin’ Around the Christmas Tree for about the eighth time, thinking that will make them stay.

The crowd is finally thinning. I get up from my chair. You’d think they would give me a better chair to sit in, but it’s the same as all the other hard, wipeable chairs. There are only a couple of people in line ahead of me. I breathe through my beard to filter the stench.  Most people get dressed up on Christmas Day. Not this crowd. No Sunday best. No new Christmas outfit unwrapped this morning. Just the same, smelly clothes they were wearing when they landed on the street. They don’t get in if they’re high, so a lot of them look wild and frightened. But they want to eat. They don’t know what to do with their hands and ball the ends of their sleeves into their fists.

 

I grab a tray, a plate and a napkin rolled around a fork and spoon. No knives allowed. The kid scooping potatoes gives me a funny look. He’s double fisting the scoop in midair and squints his eyes at me.

“Hey kid, even Santa’s got to eat.” I’m no longer in the mood to be nice. All morning I’ve had snot nosed kids on my lap looking at me like I’m heaven sent. They tell me with big eyes all the stuff they want that their parents will never afford and I give them a little jostle on my knee and a two-cent candy cane. Today is Christmas. If it was going to happen, it would have happened by now. Santa has come and gone, little girl. No Barbie Dreamboat for you. Not today. Not likely ever.

The kid clicks the lever on the scoop, twice, like he’s releasing the safety latch on a pistol. I hold up my hands. “Don’t shoot man. It’s Christmas.”

The kid doesn’t crack a smile. I figure it’s his first time here, serving Christmas dinner to the poor.

“You’re supposed to take your hat off in here.” This is the surliest kid I have encountered. He can’t be more than eight years old.

“My hat is attached to my beard.”

He doesn’t know what to do and looks down the line for some guidance. “Dad?”

There’s a man in a turtleneck sweater serving turkey. He doesn’t hear him.

“Ok, fine. Rules are rules.” I take off my hat and remove the beard. Air molecules hit my face. “Feels better, actually.” I smile at him, because he looks so miserable.

“I know you’re not the real Santa.” Bright kid. My stomach rumbles. He’s holding me up. Three people have fallen in line behind me. Someone shouts – “Give Santa his potatoes.”

The kid is rattled by that.

“Was the real Santa good to you this year?”

“No.” He plops some potatoes on my plate. “One or two scoops?”

Poor kid, having the worst Christmas ever down at the mission. The man in the turtleneck comes over. “Is there a problem?”

“He didn’t want to take his hat off.” They both wear turtleneck sweaters, father and son.

“Santa doesn’t have to take his hat off.” He rests his hand on the kid’s shoulder. The kid stiffens. “No double scoops, John. Unless they ask.”

“He’s doing a great job,” I say. “Very confident.”

Dad is not impressed and looms behind the kid to make sure things run smoothly and no one else gives his son a hard time.

I said it to help him out a little. All these nebulous expectations that swirl around him will materialise one day into another guy in a suit who shaves with a triple blade and drinks water out of blue bottles and wears turtleneck sweaters on Christmas. He’s scooping hard now, going fast and trying to impress the pharaoh. I see now who is ruining the kid’s Christmas. I see this every year. Families use Christmas to teach their kids about poor people. This year let’s do something different for Christmas. We’ll go down to the mission and feed the poor. The kid’s dad returns to the turkey station where I stand moments later as he heaps meat onto my plate. They are not running out of food any time soon. I move on to stuffing served by a woman in a pink cashmere sweater and then gravy all over everything by a chubby sixteen-year-old girl with dark eye makeup who’s wearing expensive yoga pants. There’s a logo on them that probably keeps her in with the cool kids at school. I have the whole family serving me my dinner. The mom and dad are into it. The kids are bored and disgusted by the smell so many unwashed people generate when gathered in one room.

I get two pieces of pie – pumpkin and apple and a coffee. There are three hundred people here, sitting at long tables. The room is silent except for the sound of cutlery and rustling winter jackets. A few kids run around, sweating in their dirty nylon jackets, their unlaced boots clomping on the floor. Every few seconds someone coughs or sneezes and this is directly followed by the passing around of a bottle of hand sanitizer among the servants behind the steam tables. The phlegmatics outnumber the bilious here today. I wander along the tables and look for an empty seat, a friendly face. Nobody looks up. Nobody wants to sit with me. Santa! On Christmas! I find a seat near the wall and unwrap the paper that is rolled around my spoon and fork. I lean over my plate and start shovelling.

“Can I sit with you?” I look up. It’s the potato kid. He’s got a plate of pie and a can of Pepsi. I nod and push the chair across from me out for him with my foot.

“Thanks, kid. For a minute there I thought nobody wanted to eat with Santa today. Are you on a break?”

“My legs are tired.”

“I get it. You’re doing a great job. Do you do this every year?”

He doesn’t answer. Just shakes his head in a way that I can’t decipher. Yes? Maybe not? I’m surprised he’s chosen me to sit with, but other than his family, I’m the only one he recognises.  When he opens his Pepsi, the foam rises up and over the rim and he’s quick to get his mouth on it to slurp up what he can. The pop is everywhere. His first look is to where his dad is. I grab a bunch of napkins and mop up the mess. “Happens to me all the time.” I wink at him and finally he cracks a smile. He’s eyeing the hat and beard on the table beside my tray.

“What’s your real name?” He asks. Nice ice breaker. He’s making an effort. It warms my heart.

“My real name is Soloman. My friends call me Sol.”

“Are all your friends at home right now?” Santa couldn’t possibly be friendless.

“Like your friends are? While you’re here? Now we have something in common. We’re both working on Christmas.”

“Yeah, but you have to work. It’s Christmas. I’m being forced. We weren’t even allowed to open any presents until we came here. Just our stockings. We’re doing it later at my Nana’s.” He takes a forkful of pumpkin pie and chews awkwardly. “I thought you’d have more hair.”

I let that go. “Have you learned anything here? Being forced to work and all? That’s the point, right? Your mom and dad want to teach you something.”

“I already know about poor people. At Christmas they’re supposed to have the same food as us. We’re having our dinner at my Nana’s later.”

“And presents!” The kid better have something to look forward to after this. “Do you think they’re enjoying the food?” I wave my fork around to show him who I mean.

He’s polished off his pie and Pepsi. “Sure. Lots of them come because they know there’s food here on Christmas. Other days they starve or go to the food bank.”

“This place is open every day.” I feel obliged to inform him. “They just don’t usually serve so much food. It’s usually soup and a bun.”

“Who serves the food when it’s not Christmas?”

“Sometimes I do.” He can’t believe it. His brain is twisting. “You’re right. I am not really Santa. During the rest of the year, I am just Sol. Now, look around at everyone’s plates. What do you see?”

He stands up and cranes his neck like he’s trying to see every single plate.

“Nothing.”

“No, you don’t see nothing. What’s on that plate there?” I point to a spot that has been vacated.

“Food.”

“Now look at my plate. It’s almost the same amount of food and I haven’t had a bite yet. Why do you think that poor person didn’t eat all that delicious, free food?”

“He didn’t like it?”

“No. Guess again.”

“Maybe he went to the bathroom.”

“I doubt it.” I am starving and want to get to my own mountain of food. “Ok, we’ll do an experiment. You walk around for five minutes and then come back and tell me how many clean plates you see.”

He likes to have something to do. “Do I get to ask them?”

“Hmm, better not. Most of these people don’t like talking to strangers much. Take my hat so I can keep track of you.”

His eyes light up. I put the hat and beard on him. “There. They won’t even know I’m on a break now. Ok, go. Count up those empty plates.”

“OK, grandpa.”

“Hey!”

The kid giggles for the first time on this joyous day.

I watch him. His cheery little-kid eyes glance over at me. The plates are never empty here. They put way too much food on them for people who can go days without eating. People used to picking half-eaten bagels out of garbage cans, people whose stomachs have shrunk to the size of walnuts out of a weird instinct for survival. They feel full after two bites. They are tormented by that food on the plate. They don’t know what to eat first because they don’t want to feel full and not have room for a taste of pumpkin pie in their mouths.

He finally comes back. I feel sorry for him – he is defeated. “Nobody is eating hardly anything.”

“They can’t,” I tell him. “They are starving everyday and they can’t eat so much at all at once. That’s what happens when you only get a meal like this at Christmas time.”

I pull my flask from my pocket and pour some Christmas cheer into my coffee.

“I know that’s booze.”

“You’re right.”

“Why are you putting it in your coffee? Does it taste better?”

No, it doesn’t, actually. But I’m not putting it in there to enhance the flavour. I’m hiding it in there.”

“Oh.” He nods. “This beard is scratchy.”

“I know.” I lean back from my plate and pause. The beard is damn scratchy. Next year I’ll just make a can of pork and beans at home and forgo the twenty-five dollars and foil-wrapped leftovers they give me at the end of the day. This place is alright most of the time, but at Christmas it’s depressing as hell. I think this might be my last Christmas.

“Why?” The kid looks crestfallen.

“Aw, shoot. I didn’t mean to say that. It just came out of me like that Pepsi.” He’s already having a terrible time. I don’t want to ruin his Christmas anymore.

“Here, I want to show you something. I bet you didn’t get one of these this year.” I reach into my back pocket and pull out a Christmas card that’s been in the pocket of my suit for years. I hand it to him.

He looks at. “Is this your family?”

“Read it.”

“Happy Holidays, Joyeux Fêtes.”

“Open it.”

He reads. His French is pretty convincing. “Wishing you and your loved ones and healthy and happy holiday season. Nous vous souhaitons, ainsi qu’à votre famille, et vos proches la santé, la joix et la Bonheur en cette période des fêtes. Stephen, Laureen, Ben and Rachel.”

“Do you know who that is from?”

“No.”

“That is a Christmas card from the Prime Minister of Canada.” His eyes widen. Finally, someone is impressed. He’s the first person to see it, the only Christmas card I receive every year, provided the Conservatives are in power. It’s been a while now.  I don’t know why I thought showing the kid this card would cheer him up, but it seems to have worked. “How old are you, John?”

“Seven.”

“I would have guessed eight. Maybe you’ll be Prime Minister one day,” I venture. He looks at me, still wearing my hat and beard. “You look like a wizard in that beard.”

“I like being Santa,” he says. He’s giving me another one of those cheeky grins. “You can be Prime Minister.”

“How do you know I’m not the Prime Minister?”

“There haven’t been any Prime Ministers named Solomon.”

“I guess not. Well, you can be Santa for now. Anyone can be Santa.”

 

Just then Mr. Turtleneck comes along. “Get your jacket, John. Nana will be waiting.” The tall, dress-panted Dad snatches the hat off the kid’s head and nearly chokes him as the beard is pulled into his mouth.

“Mmmmmth, Dad!”

“Take that hat off. You have no idea what might be crawling in there.”

“I want to wear it. I’m Santa and he’s the Prime Minister.” It’s clearly a backwards kind of scenario for the kid’s dad. The man keeps clawing at the hat and beard until it finally comes off the kid’s head and he throws onto the table.

“Dad, the people are too hungry to eat all this food.”

But Dad doesn’t hear. Or doesn’t listen. The hat and beard land by my plate and the strands of white fake hair streak the gravy like a catastrophe at sea. I snatch it out and give it a shake.

“Come on, John.” Dad is pulling on the kid’s arm. The same way the kid probably pulls at his dad when he wants something.

“I want to sit with Santa. It’s Christmas. It might be his last one!”

The Dad throws me a disdainful look. “You know, he believed in Santa until today.”

I shrug my shoulders. “Sorry if you were counting on me. That’s a lot on one guy.” I don’t want to sound like more of an asshole than him.

A wave of restless people wait in the food line. His wife waves at him to come back and get busy. “We’re leaving in fifteen minutes. You stay right here and don’t talk to anyone else.”

John and I sit across from each other. He looks about to cry.

“I’m sorry your Christmas is turning out so awful.”

His brain is churning. He knows something doesn’t quite add up. We are the people who are supposed to be having terrible Christmases. The poor and homeless. Not the kid from the suburbs who goes to a private school and gets a new piggy bank every year from Santa.

“I got twenty dollars in my stocking.” He pulls a crumpled bill from his pocket. “I want you to have it.”

“Really?”

“Sure. I’ll get twenty more on Friday for my allowance. I know you’re one of the poor people even though you’re pretending to be Santa.”

I want the money. My bar stool is calling. “No one ever said Santa was rich. Thank you, John. I appreciate it.” His dad would pop an artery if he knew his hard-earned twenty ended up in my pocket.

“Is this really your last Christmas?”

I pick up my hat and beard. “Look at this. Gravy in my beard. Now, I’ll need to get it cleaned. But, if I won’t need it again next year, then I can just throw it out.”

“What? No!”

I’ve got to stop thinking out loud. His eyes are getting teary.

“You have to. This would have been the worst Christmas ever if you weren’t here.”

Along comes Daddy long-legs again. “Ok, John. Let’s go.” He hands the kid a jacket.

“I don’t want to go. It’ll feel weird after being here all day. Santa’s going to be all by himself.”

I can tell he’s trying to compare the Christmas deluxe he’s headed to at Nana’s to whatever I am going home to. His face is stricken by the thought.

“I’ve got some friends waiting for me, John. I’ll be out of here as soon as I finish my pie. You go and have a good Christmas.”

“Come on, John. Say goodbye to Santa.”

I don’t know if Dad is just happy to be leaving, or if he finally realises it’s Christmas, but he tries out a smile on me and says, “Thanks for entertaining John. It’s a long morning for him.” Then he sheepishly slips me twenty dollars. The bill all folded up in a neat square out of the pocket of his brown corduroys.

John pulls on his jacket. And then a toque and mittens. I hold out my hand. “Merry Christmas, John. It was sure good to meet you.”

He pulls his hand out of his mitten and places it in mine. He nods, solemnly. “Merry Christmas, Sol. Will you be here next year?”

“Will you?”

He shrugs. “I don’t know.”

“Well, I’ll be here. You convinced me.”

“Ok. Then I will too.” To my surprise, right under the towering figure of his father, John clamps his tiny arms around me. His arms don’t land in the right places. I can tell he doesn’t hug very many people. Or maybe it’s me who doesn’t know where the arms are supposed to go.

He follows his Dad out to the car. I look around at all the people who sit stupefied, unable to move, with bellies ready to burst. Every year, they remember too late. I wrap up my pie for later. On my way out, one of the volunteers hands me a covered foil plate with another dinner on it for later. Thanks. Merry Christmas. The words have lost their meaning by now. I am glad it’s over. I slip out into the street.

The sky is gray and there is a little snow dusting the street. My boots slide and I tread carefully. The Times Change Bar is nearly empty. One other guy in a filthy, green snow jacket slumps at a table in the corner. Warren is working behind the bar. He sets a glass onto a paper napkin and pours me a J & B.

“Merry Christmas, Santa.”

I raise my glass. “And to you, barkeep.” The whiskey warms me up inside. I drink it in two gulps. Warren hesitates to pour me another, but I unfold one of my twenties and he becomes most generous with the bottle. There is a football game on the television that I watch through to the end. Then I will go home. Where I can finally take off this suit. Pour another whiskey into my favorite mug and run a hot bath. I’ll sit in my robe in my easy chair and watch television. There will be something special on for Christmas. But I’ll fall asleep before it’s over.

Time to go. I slide off the barstool and pull my hat and beard on for warmth. The man at the table has fallen asleep. The bartender pours a cup of hot coffee into a Styrofoam cup and snaps a lid onto it. “For the road,” he says. “Merry Christmas, Sol.”

“Ho ho ho.” I say, one last time.

 

Outside, the late afternoon light is waning. I walk slowly enjoying the warm haze of the whiskey. There’s a man under a sleeping bag in a bus shelter. Beside him are No Frills shopping bags filled with his belongings. A roll of duct tape, a pink plush rabbit, a blue hospital blanket and a jean jacket. I give his shoulder a gentle shake. “Hey, buddy. You hungry? I’ve got some turkey here. And a cup of hot coffee. Pie, even. If you want it.”

He rolls over and grunts. It’s impossible to tell how old he is, but I know he’s not old.

“I’ll leave it here for you. There’s even cutlery. You can keep it.”

The man can barely move, but he turns his head and opens his eyes. He blinks a few times. “Santa?”

I’ve forgotten about the suit. “Yeah. I guess I am.”

He chuckles. “You guess. Who else would you be?”

I give him the pie and the turkey. He tucks it inside his sleeping bag. He wraps his hands around the cup of coffee. “Is Christmas today?”

“Must be,” I say.

“Merry Christmas,” he says.

“Same to you.” There’s a bony shoulder underneath the sleeping bag that I squeeze before I go. “Stay warm.”

The gray light has turned to night. Coloured lights dance and twinkle from windows and wires. Big, fluffy snowflakes twirl all around. A car makes its way down the street, the tires bracing against the ice ruts. It passes and the world is quiet. I pull my beard down and tilt my head back. Snowflakes melt on my face. My boots crunch in the snow with conviction as I head for home. It happens every year. Another Christmas has redeemed itself.

    May you give and receive with a light heart and an abundance of gratitude.

                                                        

                                                            Merry Christmas to All.

My Violins (and a bow)

                                             
I don’t have a lot of memories of my first violin, other than the case was lined with red velvet and it was a Stradivarius. One of the first things Mrs. Peters told us was not to get too excited, because these borrowed violins supplied by the Winnipeg School Board were not made by Antonio Stradivarius, in Cremona, Italy in the 1700’s, but were manufactured in a factory in China and the sticker on the inside indicated that these mass produced violins were modeled on the design made famous by Stradivarius, or at least, they tried to follow his measurements.

The tailpiece had fine tuners for all four strings. As you progress with violin playing, the fine tuners for the lower strings fall away and most professionals only have fine tuners on the E string. I play at a level of fine tuners on the A and E string.

Since I started violin lessons when I was eleven, I never played on anything but a ¾ and then a full-sized violin. I help out with a student orchestra and some of the tiny players have very small violins. 1/16 being the smallest. If you’re on a 1/32 or 1/64 violin, you might want to wait a few years, if you can even verbalize this to your parents. Most music teachers I have asked recommend that some understanding of the alphabet is helpful when learning to read music. Until then, have fun banging on pots with wooden spoons, or if your parents can afford, it, do this in a group.

For a few months into Junior High School, when I was in the string program with Carlisle Wilson, I borrowed a violin from the school. Also a Stradivarius. With a blue felt-lined case and a cake of crumbling rosin in the hold-all. The rosin caked to the strings. It took a butter knife to scrape it off. Rosin dust also stuck to the violin between the bridge and fingerboard. Teaching notes and rhythm were one thing. It was a whole other job to teach kids to respect and care for these instruments.

Not just the violin, but the bows. Instruments of music and instruments of war. Made with synthetic hair and some sort of hardwood strong enough so that when the sword fights broke out, no bows were damaged. Someone eventually discovered that if you loosen the bow enough, the entire frog will come away from the stick and you can pretend to be fishing, while the pirates around you dueled.

I had been playing on borrowed violins for two and a half years. My father died in March when I was in grade six, so he never really heard me play anything good, although the consensus remains that my musical ability was inherited from him.

As a result of his passing, my mother took my sister and I to Germany for Christmas. My mom seeing her family at Christmas would be good for all of us. It was on this trip that I got my first violin. It came as a complete surprise. Part of me was expecting to play on borrowed violins my whole life. My Tante Christiane bought the violin from an orchestra player in Dresden who was upgrading to a better one. This was East Germany, where commerce was a foreign concept. She bought the violin for three hundred East German Marks. Probably about one hundred and fifty dollars. There was a label on the inside, hand- written in turquoise ink: Ernst Kreul, Geigenbauer, Markneukirchen, 1945.  Not a Stradivarius. Not even trying to be one.

First notes on the new violin. Germany, Christmas, 1977.

When I got back to Winnipeg, I showed Mr. Wilson. He walked around playing my violin in the hallways and gave it his stamp of approval. I remember him peering into the inside and saying, “Don’t tell me you got a handmade violin.” He was impressed!

I played this violin from the moment I got it, at the age of thirteen, until about four years ago. I played it for my Grade 8 exam, at the Masonic Hall at Confusion Corner. My friend Caley had come with me for support. I warmed up in the stairwell. The acoustics were amazing.

Lessons do help!

Caley and I took the bus to my exam. We knew Confusion Corner, this noted Winnipeg intersection of too many major thoroughfares, well. We used to take the bus together to the University of Winnipeg. We would chat all the way to school about anything and everything, even soup. One day, I insisted we get off a few stops early because a wasp was targeting me. Caley, incredulous, but supportive of my pending trauma, hopped off the bus with me. We walked the rest of the way, probably discussing the wasp’s hidden agenda.

So, I was in good hands with Caley there for support. In the stairwell, I played Meditation from Thais. The sound of the violin reverberated off the white metal railings and speckled floor. I was in awe of myself. The decay in that stairwell made me sound like a pro! Caley clapped. I sounded good. I felt confident.

These exams were tense. The examiner, an elderly man in a thin grey suit asked me to set up. To take my time. He asked for scales. I think the first one was E-flat major, two octaves. This was followed by requests for arpeggios. Then onto ear training and sight reading.

After all the technical stuff was done, the examiner moved onto the pieces I had selected. One Mazas study and one Kreutzer study. The pieces had to be contrasting. So, one fast and one slow. Different time and key signatures. Each highlighting technical skill.

Then, onto my pieces. I played the Massenet, a concerto by Vivaldi and then some variations on a theme by a composer whose name I forget.

Mostly, I remember that stairwell and Caley’s applause. I’m sure she was there when I emerged from the room and packed up. I had no idea how I did. We left, back on the bus. Headed for home. We both had assignments due for school. I came home and put my violin away on top of the piano. I was in second year university. It would be some time before I played the violin again.

This violin travelled with me as I moved across the country, from Winnipeg, to Toronto, to Halifax and then BC. The few months I spent in the Arctic, I left my violin at my mom’s in Winnipeg. I didn’t think I would bother to play it.

It wasn’t until I returned to Ontario that the opportunity to play in an orchestra again arose. So, my violin and I returned to a routine of practicing, and the violin got some orchestra therapy. I do believe instruments respond to the sound and vibrations of the other instruments. My violin was always happier after rehearsal where all the symphonic vibes were absorbed.

Until I travelled to Italy in 2012, I had always played with the same violin and bow. I decided, perhaps I could upgrade to a better bow. I would buy a new bow for my violin, but only if I happened to stumble upon a little violin shop in a quiet side street by accident. I didn’t want to make the search for a bow the focus of my trip. My friend, Lora and I travelled to Venice, Florence and finished our trip in Rome.

Every day we set off from our hotel in a different direction, on foot to discover what the day in Rome would bring. On one of these days, we set off down a little side street, narrower than the others with less obvious bustle and action. We were about three hundred meters from the main street when I glanced to my left. There it was. A little violin shop. In Rome on a quiet side street. I never would have found this place if I had an address scribbled down.

Inside the Liuteria:

It was a luthier’s shop, owned by a young man from France. Roma Luiteria, Mathias Menanteau. We marveled at all the violins hanging on the walls and the golden smell of linseed oil and varnish. It had finally rained, so a few hours in a violin shop would be welcome. M. Menanteau started to show me a variety of bows. He crafted violins but did not make bows. This is a specialized craft. I held each one and waved it in the air checking ther balance and feel of the bow in my hand.  He asked if I’d like to try them. Sure, I would. 

I spent a few hours in the back room trying out different bows on a lovely instrument that he had made. I treated myself to some very expensive bows, just to see. A proper bow has perfect balance and responsiveness. The best bows practically played by themselves. Hardly any effort was needed.

I had no music with me. I noodled around with some easy things I could play by ear and some scales. A trio of young girls came in and sat on comfy chairs and on some pillows on the floor. They listened in a respectful silence. I could tell by their wide-eyed, youthful faces that this was exactly the kind of spontaneous experience they had come to Europe for. I felt a surge of gratitude for their presence. I wish I could have dazzled them with something flashy. I carried on with my playing. Danny Boy and Over the Rainbow and a bit of the Meditation from Thais and my weak attempt at jazzing up Summertime.

Satisfied and onto the next big deal, they left. I chose a bow. A 200-year-old bow made by German violin maker Wilhelm Hermann Hammig. It’s a real beauty. Coincidently, he was born in Markneukirchen – the same town as Ernst Kreul – the maker of my first violin.

The story of my second violin came by an equally unexpected route. I had never fathomed owning a second instrument. I found it at a flea market. My godson liked to browse through the video games after his jujitsu lesson. This was one of those flea markets where vendors rent spots and if they are not there, then their kiosk is covered with a tarp and their wares locked up. It was early and many of the vendors weren’t onsite yet. I wandered through the rows of baseball cards and vintage neon signs, old tea sets and depression glassware. Cowboy boots, leather jackets. You get the picture.

My eyes wandered everywhere, taking in the thousands of ways a person could spend their time and money. A violin had been set on a low bench, case open. Nothing remarkable, until I leaned over to strum the strings. The sound that came from the instrument caught me off guard. It was not boxed in and muted as I’d expected. It was resonant and free. I picked up the violin and turned it over in my hands. It was so light. I couldn’t stop staring at it, I kept turning it over. It felt like it belonged in my hands. A strange sensation took over. I knew that I had found a treasure. I just wasn’t sure I needed another violin. There was no way to try it out since the bows in the case were unusable. The violin had been tuned. That was all I had to go on. I don’t know that much about violins.

It was obviously not a factory-made instrument. It had two distinctive dots on the back near the neck and the word Bristol stamped into the wood. I peered inside for a label but there was none. There was also no sound post, which made it all the more remarkable that much of a sound came out of it at all. The more I twirled it around, the more attached I felt. The varnish glowed. There were nicks and cracks, but the sound spoke for itself. This violin had not lost its voice.

The man at the booth had acquired the instrument when he won a bid on a storage locker. It had probably not been played for years. There was an accordion for sale as well. A photograph from a newspaper article taken at the Royal Legion showed a man seated in a hall, on one of those thin wooden stacking chairs with the metal legs, playing on the accordion.  I stood there holding the violin for a while. I told myself that maybe my godson would one day like to play the violin. Maybe this one would do. After all, I didn’t need a second violin. I asked the man what he was asking for it and he said a hundred. I asked if he would take sixty and he said sure. So, sixty dollars was obtained from the ATM, and I walked out with a treasure.

As soon as I got home, I unpacked the violin and got out my bow and played some notes. It took no effort at all for the sound to fill the room. This was a violin dying to be played.

I called my friend Anita. I found a violin. I think it’s maybe a good one, Could you look at it? Anita told me to bring it over. Anita knows violins. She looked it over carefully. Also twirled it around. She pointed out the pegs – perfectly flush with the holes in the scroll. The fine craftsmanship of the scroll itself. The excellent condition of the varnish and the body. And the sound – Anita had a bow. She played a few notes. Tried out all the strings up and down the fingerboard. Her eyes wild with amazement. She was ecstatic. Sixty dollars?

Anita and me - she knows everything!!

She did not play it for long. Without the sound post, it needed to be protected. Anita loosened off the strings and we put it back in the case. Yes, it was definitely worth taking in to have it properly set up and to learn something about it.

Anita, by the way, also checked over the bow I brought back from Rome and deemed it a good purchase. She’s the best!

I took it to the House of Remenyi in Toronto to be repaired. They put in a new bridge and sound post, re-glued some open seams. Cleaned and polished it. Put on new strings and gave me a new chin rest. The violin gleamed. The sight of it brought tears to my eyes. I picked it up and twirled it.

For the appraisal, I was led to a dark, upholstered room while my violin was taken into a back room. I sat on a nice sofa and waited. Why couldn’t I go with my violin? What stories would it tell?

The instrument is over 200 years old and would be valued at around fifteen thousand dollars, except for a bass bar crack – which does not affect the sound but does affect the value. The crack had been expertly repaired and had not affected the quality of the sound. The violin expert who appraised it for me could not find out a lot about it. Made in England. Expertly repaired a few times. On record as being repaired by Hill Brothers in England. During the Covid epidemic I wrote to them with a reference number stamped on the fingerboard to see if they had any paperwork on the instrument, but I did not hear back. The violin is modelled on the measurements used by Amati. “Nice measurements,” the appraiser said as he handed the instrument back to me. “You’re a lucky lady. Everyone is looking for an instrument like this.”  200-year-old sound cannot be built into a new instrument.

The violin expert thought the violin had been crushed at some point. A horse’s hoof stomping on the instrument on a cobbled street in an old English town. Probably dropped out of a case with a faulty clasp, carried by a musician making haste to the pub for a pint after a long rehearsal. It must have been a poor musician, or a good violin for someone to bother with a repair after a horse stepped on it. I felt like I saved a life.

My first violin is loud and bold. Good for Bruckner and Broadway. I’ve played this violin in a lot of dark and dingy places. Its loud, dramatic voice is well suited to cabarets and bars. It wants to be heard.

A dark and dingy place with Violin #1.

My second violin is perfect for the chamber orchestra’s Baroque repertoire. It is lighter, wiser with a golden, mellow voice. It knows it will be heard.

Concert ready with Violin #2.

Violin #1 - in my left hand. Violin #2 in my right. 

Violin #1 on the left. #2 on the right.

 

Playing in the Orchestra

Since those early days in the River Heights School orchestra, I have had wonderful experiences playing in orchestras. I have played every one of Beethoven’s symphonies. I have played Handel’s Messiah and experienced the thrill of the audience when they all stand for the much-anticipated Hallelujah Chorus. All of Bach’s Brandenburg Concertos, countless overtures, waltzes and marches. I’ve played in the pit for Gilbert and Sullivan high school productions and for the Nutcracker Ballet. It has been humbling to be inside the music, rehearsing music that had always been familiar to my ear and discovering the composer’s intention and the inner workings of these pieces.

The cacophony of the rehearsal space, as people are unpacking and warming up, or the sound from the stage or the pit, before the performance has begun, is one of the few sounds that promise order out of chaos. The order begins with the A from the oboe, which we in the string program did not have. But there was a piano or a pitch pipe. Something I only remember our choir teacher using. Mrs. Martin, tiny, bird- like, grey blue hair. She told me not to sing the high notes. Pussy willows, Cattails, Soft Winds and Roses. We sang at The Manitoba Music Festival, where choirs compete for the coveted first place spot. Mrs. Martin focused a lot on the emotion of the piece, coaching us to sing softly here and with a plaintive swell there. I couldn’t find all the high notes, but I sure could emote! People love the sound of children’s choirs. I get it. Every year I play for The Hamilton City Ballet’s production of The Nutcracker and that part at the end of the first act when the children sing, tugs at my weak heart strings every time. If the second violin part wasn’t so murderously difficult, I might break down in weepy tears every year. But Tchaikovsky's Snowflakes won’t allow it.

In the pit for The Nutcracker.

The Kelvin High School Choir under the direction of John Standing was the choir to beat at the Music Festival. It was a known fact among students who sang in choirs. In my final year at Kelvin, myself and Shona McKenzie were tasked with learning the accompaniment for two violins for Elgar’s lovely The Snow. We practiced during our lunch break, under the tutelage of Mrs. Whyte. I think she played with the symphony. She had been brought on board to coach Shona and I on this part. It is not an easy piece, but she got us there. The choir took home top honors that year, and many said it was those violins that clinched the victory. My mother was in the audience – as she most often was, even for those tedious afternoons of sixteen performances of Pussy Willows Cattails at the Winnipeg Concert Hall. Her assessment was simply – I don’t know how you could stand there and be so calm. It was my nerve that impressed her. I was extremely nervous. It's hard not to be. I am most definitely not a soloist. My happy place is in the middle of the section.

I did sing in a few choirs. A German Children’s choir and the choir in Queenston School. There was something about singing that eluded me. During my final year of high school I tried out for the chorus of Fiddler on the Roof. Until then I had played in the pit while my friends were all stomping around on stage having a blast. I am not a strong singer. There is something too direct about having someone hear me sing. Mr. Standing knew I wanted to be with my friends in my final year. I think that’s why I got to sing in the chorus that year. And we did have a blast! On stage and off. It was the year Olivia Newton-John’s Let’s Get Physical album came out. For the final number we all turned our babushka’s into headbands and came out onto the stage to sing Tradition, Tradition!

While I was playing in the string orchestra at River Heights Junior High School, I also made my first foray into a real orchestra. The Winnipeg Junior Youth Orchestra. The rehearsals were at my school, River Heights and the conductor was none other than my music teacher, Carlisle Wilson. It was a full orchestra with winds and brass and percussion and even three double basses. Of note, on principal flute was Mr. Wilson’s daughter, Keri-Lynn. She went on to become a world-renowned conductor. Keri-Lynn, already a superior flautist had a sharp sense of humor and a spot on Carol Burnett impression. She had perfect pitch and would entertain me by guessing (always correctly) which random note I struck on the piano. Her nickname for me was Jazzy Petunia. 

Keri-Lynn Wilson - She made it to the Met!

My good friend, Jennifer Smith sat next to her on second flute. It was my aim at each rehearsal to catch her eye and to get her laughing into her flute. 

My friend Jennifer and I post performance, Winnipeg Youth Orchestra.

Also, in this orchestra were future stars, Martin Beaver, violin and Thomas Wiebe, cello. These three musicians already stood out, occupying the first seat of their sections for all the years I played in this orchestra and on into the Youth Orchestra. 

We often played from poorly photocopied parts and there was one rehearsal when my stand partner, Andy and I were playing along and then suddenly we both ground to a halt, peering at the music and looking at each other. We were lost – a not uncommon occurrence in those early days. Finally, something about the music clicked and I picked it up and turned it over. We had been reading the music upside down. It’s a testament to our great skill that we even managed to play a few measures of upside-down music before realizing something was not quite right. Andy moved on to play the viola. He probably thought if he could read his way through an upside-down score, he could probably manage the alto clef.

The repertoire included Beethoven 1^st and 3rd symphonies, Bach Brandenburg Concerto No. 3,  the overture to Wagner’s Die Meistersinger and excerpts from Mussorgsky’s Pictures at an Exhibition and of course, Sibelius Finlandia, Bizet Carmen Suite. But the piece that I remember feeling most profoundly, most moved. The piece I thought of as the most stirring music ever written was Pachelbel’s Canon in D. Having played and heard this piece hundreds of times now, it bears mentioning that every string player will at some point play it and hear it for the first time and fall in love – cello players excepted. Their part is murder by repetition. But the rest is an exposition of simple bliss. The harmonies and the spare variations passed around the string sections are breathtaking. This piece was programmed once for a summer fundraiser for one of the orchestras I’ve played with, and the conductor refused to hear our grumbles and coached us to hold back and play each phrase with delicacy and reserve and easy on the volume. To try to sit with it as though it was that magical first time and every note was new to us. Our performance of this tired, familiar, light classic left us in awe once again. The audience held their applause momentarily, bathed in the stillness the music left behind.

Soon after I joined the Winnipeg Youth Orchestra, the brochures for the International Music Camp at the Peace Garden in North Dakota were sent home with all members. This would be a one week intensive camp for young musicians from all over the world. The week would also include ballet dancers and cheerleaders. We from the factions of fine art did our best to deride the efforts of the cheerleaders masquerading among us as artists.

I attended the music camp for three consecutive summers. I loved these weeks at the camp. So different from the church camp I went to where the purpose was to make crafts and fight off home sickness with cans of Cragmont soda and bags of Whoppers. At the Peace Gardens there was an instant community and sense of purpose in rehearsing music and preparing it for a performance. We had sectional rehearsals – my first experience with this dreaded practice device. Each section finds themselves in a small room and they hack through their parts without the cover of winds and brass. This happens not just in student orchestras, I have discovered. And it still sounds the alarms and strikes fear in musicians when the conductor announces a sectional rehearsal.

I left Winnipeg for Toronto and found an orchestra there, The North York Symphony, directed by another intense conductor who took on Bruch and Sibelius Symphonies. My hours spent perfecting my faking skills paid off when performing these demanding works. The people were nice and there were cookies at break. I remember one concert where the conductor was sick with a nasty cold that resulted in uncontrollable spasmodic coughing fits. During rehearsal he just let it rip. But a coughing fit struck during the performance, and watching the poor man sweat and suffer while he choked back the urge to cough and conduct with some semblance of normality has been imprinted on my brain as the highest form of service to the music. The show must go on.

Then came a period in my life where I moved around a lot and played very little.  I have lived on all coasts, east, west and north. Eventually I ended up back in southern Ontario, living in a small apartment in Burlington. Time to pull out the violin and get practicing. One day, with the window open, I was playing Bach, the Partita in D. As I played, a strange thing happened. I could hear myself. Not just in the room, but the sound was coming from outside. I kept playing for a few bars and then stopped. The sound from outside continued. I looked out the window and there was a man in the parking lot, playing a violin, and the same Bach piece. He was looking up at my window, grinning from ear to ear.  Tom, my neighbor, played the violin. And this was his way of introducing himself. He lived next door with his wife and two kids. He played in the Burlington Symphony Orchestra and would take me to a rehearsal if I wanted to check it out.  He did say it might be best for me to sit at the back of the seconds to start with. Fine with me. James McKay was conducting and Tom introduced us. Tom sat in the first violin section. Here I was again, sitting in an orchestra while the concert master stood up and waved his bow at the oboe and then the brass. People were welcoming and effusive. I made some great friends there. Thank you, Tom.

Burlington Symphony Orchestra 

From Burlington to Oakville. I heard from my stand partner, Erin, that there was a group rehearsing Verdi’s Requiem Mass. The Masterworks of Oakville.  I asked her if she could get me in, like it was an exclusive club with a secret dress code and velvet rope. Sure, she said. Always room for violins. Snacks? Of course. Charles Demuynck, the music director, only had one question. Did I want to be paid? These orchestras hire many professional musicians. Community players fill out the ranks for free. I was elated to be invited in and to take my seat next to Erin. At no cost!

Masterworks of Oakville 

As with so much music that I love to hear, I discovered the Verdi Requiem Mass to be exceedingly difficult to play. But, by this point in my career as a not-for-profit second violinist, I had mastered the art of playing what I could and faking the rest. The key to success is to know the music. Know where your part fits in and count, count, count and never, EVER, play in a rest. Especially in a grand pause, a moment during which the entire orchestra holds its breath.

I first played in an orchestra with choir during a student recital. The students were studying conducting and had to perform a couple of pieces each. Gwen, my teacher, and I volunteered. One of the pieces was the Sanctus from Gounod’s Requiem. Often, in those early days, when sight reading music, I had no idea of what was coming. The conductor raised his arms, we played the notes and suddenly the tenor sang a sublime, melodic line. Distractingly beautiful. Then, the low hum of the choir. The sound swelled and swallowed up the trembling orchestra. I nearly fell out of my chair.

It was the most startling, gorgeous music I had heard. I started listening to Requiem Masses. I think it was my Onkel Detlef in Cologne, Germany who played the Verdi for me for the first time. When I got home, the first thing I did was buy a recording to listen to over and over. That opening scene in the movie Amadeus – that’s Verdi, Dies Irae. Day of Wrath. 

A note about Beethoven’s 9^th. If it ever comes on the radio when I am driving, I have to concentrate to from running the car off the road. I find this to be one of the most joyous, uplifting piece ever composed. I have had a chance to play it and for those of you who love the Ode to Joy, please pay attention to the forty-five minutes and three movements that the orchestra plays before the choir even stands up.

Playing in community orchestras has given me a ring side seat as to the hardest bits in the orchestral repertoire. By the time you hear a professional orchestra play Beethoven’s 7th or Stravinsky’s Firebird Suite, it all sound pretty seamless.

Tear it apart, slowly, bar by bar and try to put that murderous minuet together, or that section where the orchestra plays in different time signatures, and you gain a whole new appreciation for conductors and the answer to the question, “What exactly does a conductor do?” The conductor knows how the piece fits together. They understand the arc of the story: beginning, middle and end. Their job is to pull that out of the performers and present it to the audience.

Oakville Chamber Orchestra

I now play in three orchestras: The Oakville Chamber Orchestra, The Masterworks of Oakville, both led by Charles Demuynck, and The Cricket Chamber Orchestra. This is a student orchestra run by the indefatigable couple, Maté Szigeti and his wife Anita Hiripi-Szigetiné. These people know what it takes to get the best out of their students. They rewrite music so that the parts are playable. The get professional soloists to perform with the orchestra. They have section leads who are advanced players so the students can hear the part they are playing. They understand that music does not exist in a vacuum. It is a communal experience where the musicians serve the music. Anita and Maté do an exemplary job of teaching the students how to layer musicality on top of technique. Technique alone will never result in a profound performance. These students get a world class experience under the direction of Anita and Maté . They are demanding in their teaching and effusive in their praise. It is by far one of the most rewarding orchestral experiences I have had. I take my place among the students, and I learn.

Cricket Chamber Orchestra

What does the conductor do? They do wave their arms around, sometimes a lot. The conductor interprets the piece and then coaches the orchestra. They understand the balance, the nuances, the tempos, the dynamics, the swells and quiet moments. Where the theme has to be heard and when the violins have to be quiet. How often have I heard: “Listen to the cellos here. That’s what’s important. What you are playing is not.” Sometimes the notes that are not important and accompany a melody elsewhere, are very hard and have been practiced a lot so, we want to be heard!

Now you know what the conductor does. Go and see for yourself. Support your local orchestra. Go and hear them play. They have worked hard. There will probably be snacks. You’ll love it!

I made it to Koerner Hall! (Toronto, ON.)