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I wanted to play the flute when I was young. I don't know why I chose that instrument, but it was solidly in my imagination whenever I thought about joining the school band. But then I got a recommendation from my school, urging me to choose the fiddle. I don't know why I was picked for that instrument - maybe they had a shortage of violinists signing up that year - but to my third-grade mind the school had to know better than I did, so I chose the violin.

The violin is hard. For the next couple of years I was sent each week to a tiny room just off my school cafeteria for lessons with a woman who, while she certainly knew her trade, did little to present it in a fun or even pleasant manner to her young charges. And I struggled, as I'm sure most young violinists do, to learn how to hold the bow, how to wield it so that it drew across the strings without a scratchy tone, how to place my fingers Just So so that I was playing a clean F# or a fourth-finger A, and not some sort of half-toned blue note that would only make sense to a master of jazz. I learned the mysteries of rosin, of tightening the bow to just the right tension, of clutching the violin between my chin and shoulder so that it would jut proudly forward even without any support from my hands. And I played countless infernal etudes, those rote exercises that rarely ignite even a spark of melody in a budding young musician's spirit.

I wanted to jump ahead in my lesson books, but my teacher was dogmatic. Fortunately, my parents picked up a copy of John Turner's fiddle tunes in Williamsburg - Turner was the fiddler who entertained the tourists in Chowning's Tavern - and those simple little melodies saved my interest from crashing and burning.

As the years went by, I would work with several instructors. All had their good qualities, all had their foibles. One, for instance, would remind me to use proper left-hand posture by driving the point of his conductor's baton into the soft, fleshy part of my palm each time my hand dared to relax into a more comfortable pose. But, for every bad moment or hardship, I was sustained by a pure love of music, and the memory of the standing ovation that followed my school orchestra's performance of the 1812 Overture warms my heart to this day.

I gave up the violin as soon as I graduated from high school, but I found it again years later, dust-covered in my closet, and I called it a fiddle and learned a new style of play. As an adult, I found myself eternally grateful for the lessons I'd endured as a child, and I've become a huge advocate for music lessons no matter how tedious they may seem at the time. Believe me, it was worth every moment!

Learn more about this author, Tom Knapp.
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