My Father's Violin

Our living room of treasures

I’ve read a lot lately about advice to the elderly, the “boomers” who should get rid of their possessions, their mementos, their knick-knacks. Every time I hear about the “Swedish Cleanse” I want to scream.

Recently we had our Wills updated. If anything makes you aware of your mortality, it’s the writing of your will. I found myself looking around our home thinking who should get this or that? I become angry, frustrated. Part of me wants to yell out, “WHO CARES?” The other part of me is saying, “I care.”

My father’s death was a crushing blow, as I’ve shared with all my readers on numerous occasions. What I’ve never said is his second death, the loss of all my father’s “things.” Somehow, I managed to get his beloved camera, a Zeiss Contaflex. He always had it strung around his neck on vacations and trips. His camera meant we were together, having fun, a special time with my dad. I adore this representation of his artistic side.

my dad with his camera, Fort Lauderdale, FL 1955

His violin was the most important part of his playful, happy, joyous side. When he played his violin he looked as though he were bursting with joy, a huge smile lighting up his face, making his eyes squint and his cheeks turn red. 

Before playing his violin he would carefully lift the instrument from its case and place it gently on his lap. He would remove the bow and hand it to me. He would nod to me and I would pick up the small cube of rosin. He would smile at me and I would begin waxing the bow with the rosin. When I had completed this task of love I would return the bow into the hands of my father. I would gently place the cube of rosin back in the violin case.

My father would grace me with a sweet smile, tuck his violin under his chin and draw the bow I had waxed with rosin, across the violin strings. Such absolute joy! My father trusted me enough to let me rosin his bow! It was almost a religious, spiritual moment. I was chosen to help my father prove who he could be:  playful, happy, proud and loving. Those may have been the happiest memories of my life with my father. Sadly, I have been unable to locate a photo of my dad playing his violin. My mother gave my father’s violin away to a distant uncle, who we never saw, didn’t know, and who didn’t play the violin. It was sacrilegious. My mother gave away my father’s most precious part of his belongings, his violin? How could this have happened? My mother was so grief-stricken that she

Not my father's violin

wanted to bury and  erase every reminder of him from her life. Besides my father’s death taking a chunk out of my heart, the loss of his violin took a chunk out of my soul.

Years later, it wasn’t easy cleaning out Tim’s dad's home. It was days and days of removing dishes, glasses, linens, china cabinets filled with Lenox, drawers filled with games, all the stuff of living. Tim found some treasures: notes from he and his brothers to their mom and dad. Cards from people he had never met or known, heaping praise and love onto his parents. It was a secret part of them he had never known. It was a hidden, forgotten part of their lives. H found this wealth in his parent’s home of  52 years. He also found his mom’s little green address book, filled with telephone numbers in her handwriting. I found my mother’s red address book with the same treasure of her scratchy, stilted words in fountain pen and ball point pens. We are both grateful to have the mundane, everyday yet important details of their lives, forever written in their decades old address books. 

My dear friend, Robin, found a box of her mother’s things squirreled away. In it she discovered a thick embossed notecard, an invitation to the White House for lunch, addressed to her grandmother in October, 1933. Astounding!  Robin didn’t know her grandmother had ever visited the White House! What a discovery to this unbeknownst part of her family's life. What if a Swedish Cleanse had been accomplished in her mother’s home?  Would this box have been thrown into the trash? 

In her mother’s storage unit Cathy found letters connecting her to her long-lost ancestors in Spain. She had always heard of them but had no idea where these family members were located.  The letters were in their original envelopes with

Letters from Cathy's mother's family in Spain to her Tampa home.

return addresses, sometimes just a name and the village, in rural Spain. Cathy learned to speak Spanish, tracked down her Spanish family through the return addresses, the internet and Facebook and discovered and contacted her long lost family. Cathy visited them twice in the mountains and valleys of Northern Spain. While visiting, a large portrait of her mother and father in their wedding finery unexpectedly fell through the ceiling in a room which the family rarely used and was renovating. Call that fate or her parents making their appearance known?

From her mother’s handwritten, ingredient stained recipe books Cathy continued her culinary journey using her newly learned Spanish to decipher old recipes of Spanish and Latin dishes. I am witness to the excellence of her Ropa

Cathy Varon's mother's recipe for Brazo Gitano

Vieja, Collard Greens Soup, Cuban 1905 Salad (the original), Flan and so much more. Her mother’s Crab Cake recipe is famous in Ybor and remains a menu staple of Carmine’s Restaurant in Ybor.  What Cathy found in her mother’s storage unit started her on the road to her future. She was an intrinsic part of the Invisible Immigrants photographs, history, book and a docent at the Tampa Bay History Center.

I am a German/French/English girl. I like old things and beauty. Tim is of Irish descent, he shares my love of dishes, crystal, art and potatoes. We won’t be doing a Swedish Cleansing. If I'm going to do a Swedish Cleanse and live in a sterile environment I may as well end up in a hospital or nursing home, which would not be my first choice of a peaceful transition. We love our mementos, knick-knacks, art and dishes. We adore and have adorned every nook and cranny of our home. There is nothing I love more than sitting on my living room couch as the sun streams through my windows decorated with stained glass we discovered at garage sales in Atlanta. Sunbeams make rainbows on the Rosenthal in the breakfront, the cherry-wood bar, the enormous Paris Apothecary Jar lamp, the pink marble-topped coffee table and my African violets on their antique planter. We live in a museum of memories which we celebrate daily.

We revel in the “stuff” we’ve collected which keeps us happy,  joyous and content. We love our home to the degree that it is hard to ruffle our feathers, spread our wings, and depart for even short forays into the neighborhood or long flights and drives. 

“Youngsters” need to appreciate “Boomers”  stuff as a treasure hunt. You don’t know what scraps of knowledge or history you might discover, about your parents and about yourself.    

Just deal with it and enjoy every minute of the hunt. 

Our Heart Wall

In closing, I would like to wish all the fathers of the world a very happy Father’s Day next Sunday, June 21. Plan ahead and spend the day doing all the things you love best on YOUR day!