99: Once more, the mandolin...

Last time, I wrote about the teacher who
taught me the mandolin.

In a sense, I have one more mentor.

I had joined a mandolin club as an adult and
had been serving as concertmaster for
at least five years...

At that time, my children's youth sports team
duties, games, and so on
took up all my weekends.

I was also a neighborhood association leader, in the women's club,
a district children's association officer, a crossing guard,
and a school PTA officer (though a low-ranking one).

I was living a very busy life.

Furthermore, the mandolin club's
30th anniversary concert had been scheduled,

and I had to practice too.

Just when I had absolutely no free time, my mother
was diagnosed with scirrhous gastric cancer
and had to undergo surgery to remove two-thirds of her stomach.

My mother had been hospitalized for
tests and more tests for about two weeks before the surgery,

so I had to handle chores at my parents' house and my own,
of course I was still working,
I had various other errands,
and I had concert practice.

I was completely overwhelmed.
I wished I had a copy robot.

Even though I was living such a busy life,
I was the concertmaster for the mandolin club.
I had to attend board meetings,

and for about 14 songs... I had to play for an hour and a half,
practicing on my own until I didn't make a single mistake on any of the notes,
and then add color (atmosphere) to the songs during full rehearsals
to get them ready...

The concert was in December,
and my mother's hospitalization was in November.

I was going to my parents' house,
and going to the hospital.

Oh! I had no time to practice at home at all!
I could only practice
at the weekly mandolin club rehearsals.

Because I was so busy, my heart grew weary,
and the mandolin stopped being fun.

"Once the concert is over,
I'll ask to resign..."
"I'm the concertmaster,
and I have a solo... so until the concert..."

I was even thinking things like that.

At that time, another mandolin club
was having a concert,

and since we wanted them to come to our concert,
we felt we should go,
so we decided to go with as many people as possible.

Because there was also the issue of the number of parking spaces,
we went by carpooling in a few vehicles.

At that time, it just so happened that
S-san was riding in the same car.

S-san was someone who,
like someone learning a new skill after turning 60,

had joined the mandolin club
from a beginner's class,
and while she couldn't play that well,

she had been doing it for years and was gradually becoming able to play.

I don't know what the conversation was about,
but S-san told me,
“I'm so glad I joined with M-san from the beginner's class.”

At that time, I had lost interest in the mandolin,
it wasn't fun anymore, I had no peace of mind,
I was just doing it out of obligation,
and my heart was in a rough state.

In the car, she
praised me.

“Chako-san told me, 'It's fine to just play the parts you can,'”
“'I will definitely play, so leave it to me!'
“'As long as you play the parts you can,'
“'it will be fine.'”
“'As you get used to it, if you can gradually increase the parts you play,'
“'it will be fine.'”
“'It will take years to do that, so just take your time following along,' she told me.”

“So M-san and I felt at ease and just played the parts we could.”
“But little by little, I came to understand the songs, the parts I could play increased,

and I never realized how fun it could be to create a single song together with everyone.”

“I married into a farming family,
worked desperately on household chores (including farming),
raised my children, they grew up,
and I even have grandchildren now.”

“I finally started the mandolin
when I was able to have time for myself,”

“and I never thought it would be this much fun.”

“As I gradually became able to play,
the process of 'everyone adding color to the song together'
was
so, so much fun 🎵”

“I realized that music is this much fun!”

“It added color to my daily life!”

“It's all thanks to Chako-san supporting me!”
“Thanks to you always playing properly in front of us
and leading the way!”

“Thank you 😆🎶”

That is what she said to me.

Just being chased by the days, exhausted,
with the mandolin becoming an obligation,
having no room in my heart,
and feeling jaded,
those words soaked into my soul.

I held it back at the time, but
after I got home, I couldn't stop crying.
(I'm crying even now as I write this)

That 'music is fun'—I had even
forgotten things like that...

'You added color to my life'
To receive words like that...

I felt like I could try again,
I felt like I could do my best once more.

After that, she
left the club, saying,
'My family told me to stop because
driving at night for practice is dangerous,'
but

one year and seven months after she left,
she passed away...

I suspect that, in truth,
she must have been suffering from some illness.

About a year and a half after she left,
I called her home.

The 40th anniversary concert had been decided,
and I was calling to ask her
to help at the reception as an alumna.

Her husband answered and said,
'My wife is a bit busy right now, so I'll have her call you back.'

Two weeks passed without a call back,
(she wasn't the type to not get in touch,
so I waited, but...)

When I called again, her husband answered,
'I'm sorry. She passed away the day before yesterday...'

I was just shocked, but
later on,
I felt bad for calling at such a time,

and for making him say the words
'she passed away'
at a time when he probably didn't even want to say them yet.
Of course, I couldn't ask for the reason over the phone.

That year's 40th anniversary concert
was held during the COVID-19 pandemic,
so we had little practice time and few rehearsals,

and since it wasn't at a level I could show to others,

I want to make this 45th anniversary concert perfect!

And I want her to watch over us from the sky.

I'm sure she'll have her usual smile

"Chako-san! That's amazing, amazing!"
she'll say with a big grin

She'll say my tone is "Beautiful! Beautiful!"
and clap her hands for me

After all, when she left the club,
"If there's a town festival or a concert,
I'll definitely come to listen!"
she promised me.

I'm sure she's definitely listening.

From now on, I will surely
play the mandolin for her,
as she listens from the sky.

Because she promised "definitely"
that she would listen from the sky,

because she will surely praise me,
because she will smile at me.

When I was tired, my heart was rough,
and I was about to quit the mandolin,

she was the one who made me
hold the mandolin once again.

So... in a way, she is my mentor.