Last spring I decided to search out one of my favorite teachers, Mr. H.who taught me to play the violin for 6 years. I learned that he passed away in February of 2008. His online obituary listed his accomplishments. I was surprised at what I read because he had never really shared his credentials with us.
He did post-graduate work at Juilliard and obtained a master’s degree from Columbia University, though he never mentioned it.
He taught in the Bronxville Public School System for 25 years. I heard him casually refer to this.
He taught in my home town public schools for 11 years.
He played in the Utah Symphony.
The first time I met him, he was wearing plaid pants and going around to the 5th grade classrooms, playing something on the violin to entice children to join the elementary orchestra. The tune was lively and he tapped his big foot on the floor as he played. His thin white hair grew disheveled with his movements. I was enchanted. The next week I began my years of carrying a violin to and from school.
I have had several violin teachers and played in many orchestras, but Mr. H was the steady influence in my music training.
There were many adventures. There was the day when we took advantage of his good nature and asked if he would bring us some ice cream. He said he was out of cash and showed us his wallet. One spunky student grabbed the wallet and pulled out a check for something like $15,000 from the sale of one of his instruments. He chuckled and then set off to the ice cream shop where he bought each of us a large sundae.
My favorite year was in 9th grade when I was in an ensemble group that met at 7 am. I can still remember his expression once we mastered a piece. He was so happy.
The last time I met him was in 1994 when I went to his home to play a quartet with some old high school friends. He entertained us and gave advice. He told me that I needed to keep playing, even though I had decided not to major in music.
As is often the case when we lose someone we care about, I find that my mind now focuses differently on this man who spent 36 years teaching children to play stringed instruments. His story is the kind that could inspire a screenplay. He must have taught thousands of students. What a gift he shared.
I feel like I owe a few children in my a life a piece of that gift that was given to me so freely and meekly. Until I fulfill this obligation, I’ll treasure the gift and try to keep fiddling.
