I was ten when I told my parents I wanted to learn to play the violin. The notion came to me after my grandfather died, leaving my mother two memorable artifacts upon his death—a collapsible top-hat and his childhood violin.

My mother rarely talked of her father—silver and gold engineer, widower at forty-nine, remarried, retired to Las Vegas. What I remember most was that he drank a lot and his wife exhibited coldness whenever we visited. Now that I think about it, who wouldn’t be upset with four rowdy children clinging to the brand-new fence and playing a game where the pristine lawn represented hot lava?

According to my mother, her father had his heart set on a boy. But being a girl wasn’t her worst offense. He was greatly embarrassed by her lack of “girlishness.” What did he expect after raising her in mining camps?

When my mother turned seventeen, he told her she needed to find a vocation, because she was neither pretty nor appealing enough to attract a husband. Maybe that’s why she transformed Grandpa’s 1917 West Point uniform into a child’s suit when my brother was five.

The only time my mother softened toward her father’s memory was while talking about his violin. Evidently, his side of the family boasted a few classically-trained musicians, and even with strings missing, he could play a recognizable tune on the fiddle. She admired him in those moments, as if music could somehow transcend years of hurt.

When I was ten, learning violin would’ve been cost and time prohibitive for my parents, because the lessons weren’t within the school’s free curriculum and were offsite. And, to be honest, I probably would’ve hated being inside while my friends played hide-and-seek and whiffle ball, and tromped in the woods behind our house. But I never lost interest.

Having heard the story a few times, my husband bought me a violin. Fortunately, he also bought me lessons. My music teacher, and now dear friend Sarah, worried I’d struggle as an adult student, and she didn’t want to get my hopes too high. We started with the Suzuki Method, and I plugged along as best I could. But then she realized the songs I leaned the quickest were ones I recognized from childhood, so she changed books and switched to fiddle tunes. I even participated in a recital, alongside grade-schoolers. I was so nervous, my bow bounced the whole time, but I wouldn’t have missed it for the world.

Now I’m learning to jam, using open strings. Some of my writer friends are talented musicians, and they don’t seem to mind if I miss a chord or two. And, I even busked once with a seasoned performer. What a thrilling experience that was!

I guess it just goes to show. Even if a door is locked when you’re young, doesn’t mean you can’t find its key later in life.