Music practice was sacred in my home. Two of my siblings were promising musicians. Both went on to professional careers in music. Both started playing the violin before their hands were big enough to grip a full-sized instrument. Yes! There are half-size violins. As their hands grew large enough to play a full-sized violin and their playing proficiency increased, required practice time increased as well.
Both practiced three or more hours every day and sometimes even more on weekends. There was always the sound of someone playing a violin. My dad usually played his cello late in the evening, so the cello was not a regular part of the seemingly all-day musical din. It was not uncommon to hear the violinists play the same musical phrase or exercise over-and-over. A difficult fingering or bowing or musical expression might be played hundreds of times before the demanded level of perfection was achieved. Practice time was also closely monitored by my parents – no shirking allowed. They were very draconian.
This is my younger sister’s story, but I am including it because it shows the contours of just how important my parents viewed rigorous music practice. The story is in three parts. First, my father often gave directives in lecture format – listen up and take notes. One Sunday morning he lectured my sister about how she should take seriously and literally whatever he told her. This was a mistake on his part.
My sister has had a lifelong propensity for looking through people. Not that they are transparent, but she simply stares at them as though they do not exist. This gives a clear impression that what you are saying does not deserve her attention or even register. That Sunday my father found this behavior quite exasperating. My sister assured him that she would do as he said despite looking at him like he was an idiot for lecturing her.
Then, my father made his second mistake. As he was dismissing her to go practice, he proceeded to deliver his second lecture of the day. Dad emphatically informed her that practice time only counted from when the bow went on the string until it was lifted. It did not include setting up the music, rosining the bow or adjusting the cloth chin rest. After this second lecture, my sister was sent to practice.
The plot thickened. An unreasonable amount of time passed, and my father, hearing no sounds of violin from where he was downstairs, climbed the stairs to check on my sister’s practice. When he opened the door, he was greeted by the sight of my sister’s violin neatly positioned on her bed with the bow resting on the string. My sister, who was also a brilliant student, was sitting at her desk reading a book.
Following the principle of ducking out of the way when parental fireworks were coming toward any of the sibs, I scooted; however, I was not so far out of the way as to not hear my sister calmly tell my father that she was taking his instructions literally. The bow was on the string. She told him that she knew that he meant what he said and said what he meant. She was taking him literally. The rest of the altercation and subsequent reckoning is lost to me. I do not recall the consequences, but I am sure there were consequences, for there were always consequences.
To this day, my sister, now a retired musician, will practice, but she is the only person who knows what and how she counts her practice time.
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