The Inspiration of Ben Sollee

I decided in fourth grade that I would be a cello player.  It happened during one of my sister's orchestra concerts I was undoubtedly forced to attend; during an upbeat and peppy number, with lots of minor and mediocre choreography so as not to confuse the grade school children, the sixth graders spun their cellos.  Right then and there I decided I, too, would play the cello.

And I guess my parents thought so too, because soon after I was the sole possessor of a beautiful, half size, Engelhardt cello.  A month or so in, however, I realized it took a lot of work to actually play the cello.  A waste of time, it seemed, to a precocious nine year old who had TV to watch and barbies to play with.  Plus, I could already spin it fine - I had that down after, like, 2 practice days.

Bet he had to practice to do that.

I don't remember how long I kept up the ruse of playing an instrument.  I'd go in my room to practice, hit a few strings (I hesitate to say chords) and spun it around a few times.  I didn't make it much past Go Tell Aunt Rhody and Twinkle, Twinkle Little Star; and I remember all too vividly the Christmas concert where we played Memory from Cats, and I was instructed to "move your bow like you're playing with everyone else but be sure it doesn't touch the strings."  It's cool.  I didn't wanna carry that damn thing on the school bus anymore anyways.

So fast forward about 20 years.  Nelson discovered the genius of Ben Sollee, and I decided, once again, that I would play the cello. (Incidentally, he's also the inspiration for the title of this blog - so listen to him!) But cellos are expensive when you don't have your parents to put them on layaway and I've got adult things to pay for - like grad school loans and ramen.  However, the universe is funny when you're clearly meant to do something and, during one of my recent trips home, I found my beloved(ish), beautiful, half size, Engelhardt cello in my dad's garage. 

Well, cello there!

Since I'm so dedicated to my future craft I decided to sacrifice my possible comfort (because, let's remember, it's not as though I know what playing a cello is supposed to feel like), and re-learn on my original, half-size cello.  My dad, who doesn't seem to learn any lessons, encouraged this and helped me find a man in town who repairs upright basses to see if we could get an idea how much it would cost to repair - keeping in mind that it has been through one move and spent close to two decades untouched in the garage.  I wasn't hopeful.

But, again, the odds were (ever) in my favor and my cello was pronounced fit as a...newer cello.  I only need to re-hair the bow, which is apparently a thing.  And so here I am, a few weeks later.  I've only practiced 3 times (I haven't had the free time, except for yesterday when I just watched TV all day and went to bed at 9) and have mastered Jolly Old St. Nick and the first 2 lines of Canon in D (it gets pretty hard after that), which Nelson says is quite impressive. 

He's better than me. For now.

I'm 27.  I guess I feel the need to define myself these days, to have something I do, something that tells me who I am.  I wasn't really worried about that in fourth grade.