When I was a second grader somebody let me pick up and scratch out a few notes on a violin. I can’t fathom why I wanted to. Might have been a Laura Ingalls kind of thing. The class was held in a building I remember looking a little like a one-room schoolhouse. It was probably just one of those portables dressed up in my fantasy.

I did go all out for gingham and braids at age seven, though.

I was not a good violin player. I think it had something to do with fatigue brought on by carrying the thing to school. By the time I hit the crosswalk, my arm was about to fall off. The case must have been made of lead or something. I needed a pack mule.

I was also the shortest kid in the whole student body clear through third grade. I was probably dragging it on the ground the whole route, which couldn’t have helped it sound any better.