On Becoming Callused

My husband let me open my Christmas present early. The gift was one of his most romantic ever; a beautiful guitar with a red cedar top, wild cherry back and sides, and a silver leaf maple neck. It’s strings sound almost bell-like when plucked. I quickly learned how to contort my fingers into the correct shapes for several chords and began strumming out halting versions of “Away in a Manger,” “Bring a Torch Janette Isabella,” “O Come, O Come Emanuel,” “Good King Wenceslaus,” and “The Little Drummer Boy.”

The first day I began with vigor and remarked over and over about how the instrument almost seemed to play itself. The action was low and the strings virtually melted beneath my fingers. Naturally, I picked up the guitar on the next morning expecting similar results. That time though, the tips of my fingers screamed in revolt. Apparently, the day before had been a breaking in period, but after that, they were rendered as tender as rare filet mignon. The arduous process of developing rubbery skin on the tips of each finger was only beginning. In terms of hurtles to becoming a guitarist, this was only the first. I knew from experience that higher and more challenging obstacles lay on the track ahead, but the process of acquiring calluses certainly qualified as the most intense.

In a way, the whole process strikes me as somewhat of a metaphor for motherhood. Just as guitarists proudly display their hard-earned calluses, even women whose children have long since flown the nest continue to recount horror stories about labor for no other purpose than to remind themselves of the inner stamina and strength they can summon in dire need. Get one started and the horrific tales can flow for hours on end making even the most stalwart expectant mother cringe. Twice I have endured the throws of childbirth. Unlike my aching fingertips on the steel strings, however, my contractions did not have the luxury of being postponed for a later practice session. After three solid hours of pushing to bring my daughter into the world, I was so exhausted I spoke only in whispers. I was told later that my bone structure is the perfect shape for a baby to make a side-ways entrance, however, since they don’t choose to come that way, coaxing one out of my body is extremely arduous. I was also told that had I opted for an epidural during labor, the exit would have been rendered impossible and a dangerous c-section would have become necessary. From all the stories of second-time mothers, I had high hopes that the birth of my son would be quick and easy. Granted, it was quicker. I only pushed for an hour and a half before he saw daylight. The intensity of sensations and agony, expectation and despair I felt during that hour and a half, though, is something I will remember to my dying day. During both labors, the logical side of my brain as well as my wonderful husband kept assuring me that this would not go on forever, that I would emerge on the other side in a relatively short amount of time. The defeatist portion of my brain was screaming out that one more contraction was more than I could take, that even three pushes more would amount to an eternity of agony. During the birth of Clara Grace, my logical side won out and I remained calm and demure. During the birth of Everett, my defeatist side won out and I’m sorry to say that at one point, I nearly kicked the poor midwife across the room. In either case, whether or not my dignity was in tact, the process of birth continued and each time, within twenty-four hours of labor I was happily snuggling a wriggling newborn. Needless to say, an indelible lesson about the prized fruits of painful labor was learned.

“You have to keep playing,” I told myself. “It’s bound to get better.” I’m sorry to say that I hadn’t merely transferred this bit of wisdom on calluses from my time on the birthing table. I had actually experienced the process of tender and hardening fingertips on several occasions. But calluses, as with many things in life, adhere to the time-honored mandate, “Use it or lose it.” How my throbbing fingertips were chastising me for the former calluses, which had once protected them and then been allowed to fade away with lack of practice.

There was the first time I owned a guitar way back in junior high. I’ll give you three guesses as to why I made that purchase. You got it. A boy in a garage band had slipped me a copy of their really pitiful album. He happened to be the lead singer, and I use the term singer loosely. Even back then when I was under the spell of infatuation, I had to admit that I couldn’t understand a word of his vocals and that any tune their was, was either very free or a bit strayed from on his part. But that was fine, he’d written the songs, and it was the eighty’s after all, an era when half the songs coming out of the radio sounded pretty much the same.

I knew nothing about instruments and really didn’t have the funds to act on the knowledge had I known that all guitars are not created equal. As a result, I wound up with a piece of junk from China baring the general shape of a guitar and a high gloss finish. The instrument needed to be put out of its misery, but if I was ever going to try to get music from the oversized, plywood cigar box, it was in an even more desperate need of a set up. I really did give it a valiant effort, but the strings were at least three quarters of an inch from the fingerboard, and no amount of calluses can compensate for that. So in the end, my devotion to learning the guitar faded away as did my interest in the semi-talented rocker. By the time my first calluses had vanished, the dust was already collecting on the faux-leather case in my closet.

Much later, I traded that guitar in to fund a part of my future husband’s, present. Have you ever tried to put wrapping paper around a banjo case? It’s not an easy feat, I assure you. Jeff loved the gift. Fortunately, he was still like myself in that oblivious state about the varying quality of instruments. Unlike the guitar which had gone to fund its purchase, his banjo was playable, but they did share similarities in the far from pleasant tones they could produce.

My next instrument purchase was at a yard sale and surprisingly; it was here that I got the luckiest. It was standard practice for me to ask if there were any musical instruments for sale. Most of the time, people just gave me the weary “if it isn’t out here…” look, but one time it paid off. “I think I still have that old violin in the attic my dad forced me to play in high school,” the woman manning the sale told me bitterly. “I’d love to get rid of that thing.” Like ninety-nine percent of all the dusty violins in attics, this one had a faded label that read “Stradivarius,” and like all those other violins it was definitely a copy. The instrument however was a relatively decent violin made a quarter century ago in Mittenwald Germany and what it lacked in projection, it made up for in a warm and sweet tone. I took lessons and actually progressed on the fiddle. Fortunately for me, a violin’s fine strings don’t require much in the way of calluses. It’s cousin the mandolin however, which I decided to tackle next was another story.

I settled on the mandolin because its fingering is the same as the fiddle’s. Why not be able to play two instruments for the price of one? By this time however, I had learned to do a little bit of research before purchasing an instrument. Good sound was of course a prerequisite, but to really interest me, an instrument had to be unique. The fiddle to which I had upgraded, for example, was number 103 handmade by Jean Ivy. Jeff and I had to travel past the point of all civilization to the very top of Sand Mountain, which is every bit as desolate as its name suggests, to try out the fiddles hanging in Mr. Ivey’s workshop, but the fiddle I brought home was well worth it. The mandolin I finally chose was a traditional, honey-gold A-style and sounded exquisite, but I soon found I’d need some perseverance if I wanted to enjoy its music. With its double steel strings, a mandolin feels something like a meet tenderizer on the tips of your fingers. Despite the grueling process, I’ve gone through several sets of calluses since my first painful weeks with the instrument.

I am playing guitar and mandolin now with a passion and am thoroughly enjoying every spare minute I can steal away to practice. My fingers are as tough as shoe leather now and can bend a steel string under one-hundred-fifty pounds of pressure without even causing me to flinch. I would be extremely naïve to hope though, that if I die at a ripe old age, these calluses will be the same, which accompany me to the grave. I know myself far too well and can already see other interests like beautiful ivy vines winding themselves into the few moments of free time my days afford and choking temporarily my regular practice time on the guitar. Probably though, that will be months down the road and I will have been afforded enough time to become at least a passable performer on the instrument. I’ve come to terms with this seeming flightiness to my disposition. I’ll never be a concert guitarist, that much I can say with certainty. I will however, certainly be able to play songs with my children, and even be asked to jam and perform with a host of interesting people; all completely enjoying the process of learning and growing, and good enough on their instrument to make other people happy when they listen. It is true that the world needs virtuosos, but I for one, am happy that my genetics spared me the single-mindedness and unswerving dedication that this lot in life requires. There’s no telling how many instruments I will try to conquer during my lifetime, and no telling how many will be eventually set aside in a closet for later discovery and how many will become a daily facet of my life as the fiddle has.

So now, I have my calluses, the rite of passage for all guitarists, and am plugging away at the far less exciting challenge of daily practice. Maybe someday they’ll come up with something like an epidural for the five days of breaking in fleshy fingertips. I’d be tempted, although, these newly acquired badges of endurance are definitely doing their part to keep me on the path of commitment. And the long hours of monotonous strumming aren’t completely without rewards either. Simple treasures can be gleaned during the drudgeries of practice just as during the long days of endless diaper changes, there are the brilliant moments of success; I played “Amazing Grace” smoothly with almost undetectable chord transitions, Clara Grace gripped my hand and told me earnestly, “Mama, want to hear, I love you again.” I discovered the melody notes hidden among the chords of “Down In The Valley”, Everett patted my arm while he was eating and was surely thinking “I love being here.” Birth, in itself, is a rite of passage, and unlike guitars, children cannot be put off for a day or come back to when one has more time. Being a truly wonderful mom is one occupation in which I do intend to be something of a virtuoso.