Cello Surfing

36" x 48" x 1.5"

Acrylic on Canvas

Two Sugar Maple trees were growing near the street in either corner of our front yard like towering, majestic syrup dispensers. Our dad loved the shade the trees provided on hot summer days, but he hated the sticky maple sap that dripped onto our cars like maple syrup drizzling down a tall stack of hotcakes at the local diner.

One day, our dad decided to chop those giants down like George and his cherry tree. After cutting through the hefty trunks with an old handsaw, the twin maple monsters fell one at a time in our large front yard, landing short of our house and its large picture windows. He either calculated just right or got lucky.

While dad was cutting up the tress, limb by limb, my siblings and I climbed on the branches like a big, woodsy, jungle gym. Our dad took the larger chunks of those maple trees and fashioned them into an array of violins. As a carpenter and craftsmen, he applied his woodworking skills to the art of creating four stringed, musical instruments. He promised each of us a handcrafted instrument if we took lessons at school and learned to play. Not that he was expecting another Itzhak Perlman, but a competent rendition of “Twinkle, Twinkle Little Star” and a few Christmas carols would be nice.

I’d take the family violin, which my dad used as a blueprint, to school every day. Learning the scales, sort of, and some basic songs, sort of. I’d practice occasionally and screech out that twinkle tune. Everybody loved it, not really. At our fourth grade Christmas recital, with family, friends, and the whole school watching, I pretended to play that violin while the other kids performed.

I hated going to practice! I hated practicing! I hated being a phony! So, what did I do? I became a bigger phony! I’d take that violin, in its black wooden case to school every day, leave it in the classroom closet where we’d hang our coats and stash our lunchboxes, but never go to practice. This went on for months. I’d take that stupid instrument to and from school each day but never attempt to play it. I was too afraid to tell my dad I had quit. I was too afraid of what he might say or do.

But the cat was let out of the bag when the spring recital came around. I had to admit I was a phony, knowing I’d never get one of those handcrafted, maple beauties. But, as luck would have it, my mom gave me one after my dad had passed away. Though I never learned to play it, I will cherish the thought that a small piece of my dad will always be with me.