The Summer of My Cracked Cello

The summer of my cracked cello started at ten o’clock in morning on Friday, June 8, 2012, when I drove into the driveway of  my cello teacher, who I will refer to as June to preserve her identity.  As I shut off my car engine, I could hear the faint sounds of a cello and I could barely see the outline of June's head, bent slightly and framed through opaque curtains, which adorned the window directly in front of the driveway.  June met me at the door and welcomed me into her ‘music room’, which contained two guitars, many paintings, a large floor to ceiling book shelf containing numerous books, a music stand and a view of two idyllic ponds, though a broad, sliding door.  I learned that her music room used to be a garage. 

A bit of background information here.  I am an experienced acoustic guitarist and bass guitarist, having formed and played in more than several ensembles during the past 30 years.  I have performed at bars, community events, nonprofit organizations, public parks, private parties and the occasional wedding.  I obtained the cello several years ago from my daughter’s teenaged friend, who urged me to trade her one of my bass guitars for it.  It has sat idle for more than 7 years and I recently decided I would make a serious attempt to learn how to learn how to play it this summer.  I have always wanted to play my acoustic guitar accompanied by a cellist but I have been unable to find a cellist interested in doing so.  Therefore, I decided to try my hand at the cello.  My goal is to perform several songs with an acoustic guitarist at a public performance before the end of 2012.

June is a delightful woman, a professor at a local university, who came highly recommended by a fellow artist and community volunteer. Her website describes her impressive experience as a musician and teacher and her many affiliations with music organizations in central Massachusetts.  Her gracious and friendly manner put me immediately at ease and she set about familiarizing me with the instrument; describing its construction, how to hold it, and how to position myself.  She picked up my cello and frowned when she saw the large crack in the front of the body, “Oh, this is not good,” she explained.  “The tension of the strings will most likely cause this crack to grow and it is located very close to the sound post,” which I learned is the area of the greatest stress.  This was unfortunate news, however the cello would be suitable for the time being.  June set about tuning my cello to her cello, which was lying on its side on the floor. We moved on to the lesson.

June picked up her cello and directed me to follow her lead.  Together, we plucked the four open strings, four times each, beginning with the highest string, the A string.  She named the notes of the four strings for me as we pulled them with our index fingers, from highest to lowest: A, D, G and C.  The sound of two cellos, being carefully plucked in that room, was quietly enchanting.  I believe I fell in love with my cracked cello at that moment.  As I pulled the strings, I could feel the vibrations in my chest and my legs, which were supporting the cello.  I could feel the texture of the strings in the tips of my fingers.  We moved on to the bow; how to hold it, how to move it, how to rock the body gently from side to side counter the push-pull of the bow. 

As the lesson came to a close, we discussed practice exercises and potential material.  We made plans to meet in about 2 months, when she would return from a summer trip.  As I returned to my car, she noticed the tattoo on my inner arm.  “A G clef,” she said as she pointed at it and smiled.  I returned her smile and placed my cracked cello in the front seat of my car, ready to begin our journey together.