Getting Things Right

Dad had died and I had his violin; I decided to take

lessons. One of the bank tellers where I worked

mentioned her aunt was a music teacher. She gave

private piano and violin lessons. Her name was

Margaret Bailey and she lived on Bailey Road just

off the Back Caribou Road where the stretch was

hilly farmland, quiet and crispy cold in the winter

time and sweet and sunny in spring and summer. I

would drive from our place on Main Street in

Presque Isle and take the old road that was curved

and hilly and come to the bottom of a long incline,

which was the crossroad where Bailey cut through

Caribou, turn left and drive about another quarter

mile to the old farm house -- big and white.

Margaret lived there with her sister Maud. I was in

my twenties then, Margaret must have been

pushing sixty, and Maud Thaw was widowed and

surely pushing eighty. She was stooped over with

a dowager's hump and had been a school teacher

for many decades. She was always smiling. Maud

moved much slower than Margaret, who was a spit

fire, full of loud laughter and burning energy. She

had married her music, her flowers and her dog

Fenriese, who barked ferociously every time I

drove into the yard.

Week after week for three years, I went for my

lesson. Margaret and I exchanged muffin recipes,

and Maud would calm Fenriese by petting him and

having him lie down beside her at her feet on the

kitchen floor, while we sat at the table sampling

muffins before the lesson.

Margaret was enthusiastic and positive about my

progress on the violin and never once berated me

for my lack of practicing, but encouraged me time

and again , feeding me new music pieces, enticing

me with "Danny Boy" and "Liebestraume" and

"My Wild Irish Rose." She played piano and I

played my pieces on violin. She would say, "Next

week, we'll play a duet. I'll play violin with you."

We managed to have fun even though I remained

recalcitrant as a musician.