My Teachers

I have already written about my piano teacher, Alice Funk, who ushered me through Grade Eight piano. After the group lessons with Mrs. Peters, I had three violin teachers. Two of whom I adored and one who made me work too hard.

My cousin, Mark was taking violin lessons from Mary Ediger. So, naturally, Mrs. Ediger became my teacher too, because we could carpool and have our lessons back to back. After Mark stopped taking lessons, my mom would drop me off and go to Polo Park to shop. I would go in the side door of the little bungalow and straight down to the basement to wait my turn, listening to the sound of the student ahead of me. With any luck, Mrs. Ediger would be in a chatty mood and the lesson would be derailed by her stories.

Her house always smelled of freshly baked Zwiebach. Having a Mennonite music teacher had been a theme so far in my life. I loved Mrs. Ediger. She took a lot of time to talk to me. She showed me how to clean my violin and taught me a trick that to this day holds true. If you start to practice and it doesn’t sound so good, put your violin down for ten minutes and then go back to it. It will instantly sound better the second time around. This never fails. I tend to practice this way. Ten minutes on, ten minutes off. By the end of two hours, I am ready for Carnegie Hall.

Another drop of wisdom that came from Mrs. Ediger must have come from a conversation about me studying music. She said, “You don’t want something you love to become a chore.” These words have stayed with me. I love playing in orchestras. Practicing and getting the notes under my fingers and the music in my head make it more enjoyable. But I can skip a day. I have skipped many days. Every time I play the violin or the piano, I love it.

So young...

There may have been another reason Mrs. Ediger steered me away from the professional world of music. It is grueling. Musicians work all hours cobbling together an uncertain income. The classical world can be cutthroat and competitive. It would not have suited my less than intense personality and she probably saw this. The discipline and determination to succeed at a musical career were not part of my psychological profile.

I prepared for a few exams with Mrs. Ediger. I remember getting First Class Honors on one of them. Mrs. Ediger was so pleased.

Then, she started to cancel some lessons. I think my cousin Mark and his dad, my Uncle Peter knew what was up, but I was unprepared for the phone call from her. She talked to me directly and did not leave it up to my mother to tell me. Sitting on the hard chair by the phone alcove with the beige telephone receiver in my ear, I fought back tears. I could hardly speak. Mrs. Ediger told me she had Multiple Sclerosis and had to quit teaching. It took all the wind out of my sails. I cried so hard after that call. I can’t remember if I visited her or saw her again. But she remains vivid in my memory, a short, soft woman with wire rimmed glasses and light brown hair and always with the kindest words and longest stories.

The teacher I had after that was recommended to my mom. I don’t remember by whom. Maybe Mr. Wilson, my music teacher at school? It had to have come from someone with a prodigious child. Because, Mrs. G. had been a child prodigy. They lowered her to the stage in a peanut shell. She had made it to Carnegie Hall. By the time I became her student she was long past those glory years. She lived in a gorgeous home on Wildwood Crescent. Always dressed in a fine ensemble with make-up and perfume and a rigid posture. She demanded too much of me. I sight-read a piece one week and was expected to have it memorized the next. She was the first of my teachers to insist on my performing at the Manitoba Music Festival. There was no way I was cut of that cloth. Mrs. Ediger and Alice Funk both let me know of the opportunity and were willing to coach me in that direction. They both knew, I think, that I would flounder in front of a large audience. Instead, they opted to nurture and draw out whatever musicality I possessed. Which they knew was not enough to pull it off as a soloist. Bless them evermore!

And bless my mother for listening to me and agreeing that I needed to find another teacher.

Which brings me to Gwen Morrow – the absolute best person for me to meet at the time I needed it most. She came after my year of Mrs. G. My mom probably felt I should stick out the year. But, lessons with Mrs. G were not cheap and I was miserable. Gwen Morrow was recommended to me by a school friend who was taking lessons with her. I was in high school by now and playing in the Winnipeg Youth Orchestra. The violin was becoming a part of my identity.

Gwen lived on Garfield St, near Notre Dame Ave. By this time, I was driving, much to the relief of my mother. I drove myself to my lessons. I think I was paying for them too. Gwen always had her violin out and played with me. One of the first things she told me was that she had not studied music at university and so she was not a member of the Manitoba Music Teachers’ Association. She wanted to be clear that if my intention was to become professional, then she was probably not the right fit for me. I assured her that I was not interested in a career in music.

She told me she had quit playing the violin when she was busy raising her five children. Once they were old enough to do without her for an hour, she started to practice again. And then teach. Thank goodness for that!

My beloved teacher, Gwen.

I studied with Gwen through to Grade 8 Royal Conservatory exam. I had learned some of the easier Bach’s Sonatas and Partitas and the Accolaÿ Concerto. One day, after my lesson, Gwen told me she was not able to teach me anymore. Not any longer; any more. She had come to the end of her pedagogical abilities. If I wanted to go further, Grade 9 or 10 or beyond, I would need to find a new teacher.

I was already in university at this time, the second year of a Bachelor of Arts program. My response was immediate and swift. I could not imagine restarting with another teacher. I was not going to be a musician. I quit.

I needed to focus on my studies. I eventually got into the School of Medical Rehabilitation. I was working part-time job and partying much as time would allow. I moved out of my house and in with my friend Ellen.

Ellen made me a birthday cake with my portrait on it. She's the best!

My friend Kevin was organizing a Street Performers Festival and needed some classical acts. I pulled out my violin and started to practice a bunch of pieces taught to me by Gwen. Poor Ellen had to listen to me practice to The Polish Dance with its left-hand pizzicato and four string chords. It drove her to the brink. She hated that piece. Ellen was a keyboard player and vocalist in a local folk-rock band, The Crash Test Dummies. They played at the street performers festival too. Ellen became famous! I became a physiotherapist! Mmm, Mmm, Mmm, Mmm.

The Polish Dance - banished from my repertoire.

After the festival, I put my violin away again for a long time. My first physiotherapy job was part-time. Mornings at a community seniors health center. I worked for about five hours and then went home. I started practicing the violin again. I sucked. My muscles got tired and sore. My bow hand seized into a claw capable of only a crude grip. My down bow was stronger than my upbow. And crooked. My muscle memory had failed. I had forgotten how to play.

I called Gwen and asked if I could take some lessons with her again. She told me she had some health issues and had quit teaching. My heart sank. Memories of Mrs. Ediger. Gwen suggested rather than lessons that I come for lunch and we play duets for fun. My heart sang. What a perfect idea!

I went once a week on the Notre Dame bus straight from work. Gwen made lunch and then we had my lesson. I was always starving by the time I got there. Her food was simple but so good. Fresh baked bread and butter, every week. And then usually home-made soup. Pizza soup was my favorite. Then tea and some cookies. She loved talking too and always had stories about her kids and grandkids. Then we played. Duets by Beriot, Tartini, Vivaldi, Stamitz. I asked her try some Bartok duets. We played through the book I had, after which she closed the book and handed it back to me. “There, that’s done.” We stuck to the Baroque.

Me again.

She told me all about her family and her cats. She had a lot of cats. They presented themselves at her door and were usually admitted entrance. Graham – an enormous white and black cat used to sit in my open violin case while we played, his girth spilling over the sides.

They lived in a tiny house on Garfield Ave. She raised five kids in there. I never could see how. Where did they put them all? Her youngest son, Paul, still lived there. The rest were paired off and having kids. She loved and worried about them all. Her husband, George and sometimes Paul, would join us for lunch.

Gwen’s health improved for awhile and she started teaching again. It was Gwen who decided we were going to join the Mennonite Community Orchestra together. My days in the Winnipeg Youth Orchestra were long gone and as far as I knew the Mennonite Community Orchestra did not do road trips to Pinawa, MB or play in shopping malls to promote Manitoba Pork. And there were no auditions. I think Gwen probably told them I could cut it.

Another revelation. I could play in an orchestra, not as a professional musician, but as a proficient musician. This bit of intel was life-changing. It allowed me to move. To travel. To live in different places. Everywhere I went, there was a community orchestra that I could join on no merit at all. There were musicians galore who just wanted to get together and get into the music. This community is vast and should market itself more aggressively as the answer to all our problems. 

We played a lot of Beethoven under a very stressed conductor. Before him was a young man, mellow and calm. Glen Klassen. I remember his deferential demeanor, if it’s not too much to ask, could the trombones please play less loud in the section marked mezzo forte. There is a running joke among musicians that the trombones are never asked to play louder and are constantly badgered into toning it down.

Gwen and I played for a few weddings and once we played a Christmas program in a quartet at St. Peter, Dynevor Old Stone Church in Selkirk, Manitoba. The church was unheated except for a woodstove. The temperature outside was -35 C. People came to hear music and sing and hold hot drinks. The CBC filmed it and the host, Robert Enright let me wear his gloves.

On another occasion we played on the stage of the Centennial Concert Hall for a New Years' Eve event featuring a newly choreographed dance and original music. Just the two of us in the spotlight until the dancers started to move. What a thrill! 

The Mennonite College had a conductors program and Gwen and I volunteered to play for the student recital. This is where I first heard the Sanctus from Gounod’s Requiem Mass and my love of playing choral music was born. Finding Gwen to teach me violin opened many doors for me that I would not have found myself. She loved playing and brought me along into the joy of performing music.

I have had many violin hiatuses in my life. For anyone out there, after a long period of inactivity and neglect, faced with an awkward unfamiliarity with the instrument, focus on intonation. Play every note in tune and don’t worry about what your body is doing. Especially the bow. It’ll drive you nuts. Your bowing will suffer most of all, but once you have the notes in tune, you will be much encouraged and can turn your attention to your bow.

After I left Winnipeg for Toronto, Gwen and I wrote letters. Her letters were detailed and engaging. An extension of our conversations. I wrote back. I must have missed replying to one or two of her letters, for she sent a letter in which she stated in her blunt, direct manner, that she would not write again unless I replied. (Pre- internet. Only letters.) Our correspondence lasted for years. She became ill with emphysema and quit teaching. I visited her in the hospital and at home when she was trailing lengths of oxygen tubing behind her. She never lost her sense of humor or grit. When her son mailed me her obituary, I was saddened, but ever grateful. Without her, I would never have continued to play. 

Still on my music stand, Bach and Accolaÿ:

Music teachers - you make all the difference in the world! Thank you. 💖