The War Of The Rosin

While Mrs. Jennings, the orchestra director, was busy yelling at the Second Violas, Clay and Eric started rosining up their bows. Not with just a little rosin; no, the boys who had been sent to the purgatory that is Third Violin laid it on thick. Five, ten furious strokes of the rosin across the horsehair, and they were just getting started.

Mrs. Jennings appeared to glance at the boys for an instant, but all she saw was, apparently, Clay and Eric going over the sheet music.

Ah, they're finally taking this seriously, she thought to herself. Maybe by the end of the semester I'll let them play Second Violin.

The boys were saved from further ruminations by Mrs. Jennings, however, when Sarah, the goody-two-shoes concert mistress, raised her furtive little hand accompanied by a bleating "Oh, Mrs. Jennings! Mrs. Jennings!"

Clay and Eric hated Sarah. They hated her prissy hair cut, and they hated her bought-not-rented violin that she lovingly wiped off every time she either took it out of its case or put it back. Without fail. Never missed the wiping. They hated her velveteen rosin bag. A bag for rosin! The boys could never forgive that. That was taking it too far.

"What is it, Sarah?" From her tone one might infer that Mrs. Jennings wasn't too fond of Sarah, either.

Sarah beamed at her recognition. She Had The Floor, now, and she was in her element.

"Well, I'm pretty sure that Moon-Hi was five minutes late again today, and you know what you said about people being late."

Taking advantage of the diversion Sarah had presented them, the boys resumed their rosining. By now they both had completely saturated their bow strings with rosin. All was right in the world, and the Sarahs that inhabited it were forgotten for a moment while the boys sat back in satisfaction, waiting.

"All right, people, eyes on me. We're going to start from the third measure on the second page. Ready?" Mrs. Jennings' baton was poised. For a moment Clay imagined Mrs. Jennings using it to jab at Sarah in the ribs until she cried. Mrs. Jennings noticed his smile and thought to herself that at last she was finally getting through to Clay.

The boys started playing, anxiously awaiting the measure that was coming up... the measure whose dynamic was labeled ff, the measure that was fortissimo, the measure that was meant to be played very loudly indeed. With down strokes from the bow, no less. Oh yes, the boys were ready.

As each note passed and the measure came closer, the boys' anticipation became palpable for anyone that had been paying attention. Fortunately, no one was. They were Third Violin, after all. Finally it arrived, and Clay and Eric struck the strings with gusto, sending a cloud of rosin dust upward and outward that was a joy to behold. Their laughter and coughing was finally interrupted by the annoying rapping of Mrs. Jennings' baton.

Followed, of course, by a prissy harrumph from Sarah.

Oh yes. All was again well in the world.