MARLBORO — I never thought about David Tasgal's age before, but if I had to guess, I would have said early 60s, which is why I had originally dismissed the news that a 72-year-old man was struck on his bike in Greenfield on the afternoon of Oct. 12.
David has been a part of the Marlboro Elementary School family in southern Vermont as a violin teacher for more than a decade. His quirky, fun-loving approach makes this classical instrument accessible to all kinds of kids, and his death leaves our school family aching.
I imagine all those young children - with their tiny violins - as they waited for him that next morning, ready to play (and I mean play.)
A list of David's original compositions for the violin lends insight into his heart for children, while revealing a characteristic silliness: “Blast Off,” “Marching to the Practice Room,” “The Tough Cat,” “Goldfish Variations,” “Cha Cha Cha Cha,” “The Rabbi Dances with his Dog,” and “Bingo Suddenly Meets Mozart.”
My younger son, Aidan, who studied with David from first through eighth grade, believes that one tune in particular had a handful of title changes over the years. “Song for a Pet Who Died” became “Song for a Pet Who Ran Away” became “Sad Clown Fish” became “The Lonely Fiddle” - all in attempt to make the children less sad.
Aidan also marveled that David could compose a tune such as “The Duck Song” from a single note and still make it “interesting and satisfying.”
As a parent and a teacher, I found it particularly pleasurable to see so many children, of all ages and skill levels, play together. David's unique approach made that possible.
David swept in for school events in wild shirts and then began without fanfare, keeping the focus on the violinists while enthusiastically accompanying them on piano.
In fact, at the piano is where I remember David best. I loved the mornings when he'd arrive a bit early for lessons - at the tail end of All School Sing - and then slide his way onto the piano to add pizzazz to our last song.
On the evening after David died, I entered the school auditorium to teach yoga, but I felt his presence so strongly that I could barely begin my class. To soothe myself before I left, I placed a small light on the piano to sit shiva with David's spirit through the night.
We lit a candle at home that night, too. Our older son, Lloyd, 20, who was in David Tasgal's very first class at Marlboro Elementary, recalled how perfectly David tailored lessons to engage him and his more sports-oriented peers: “At one point, he gave us percentages so that we'd compete with each other,” he said.
* * *
As Lloyd reminisced, Aidan, who graduated from Marlboro Elementary in June, was uncharacteristically quiet.
Aidan gave himself wholeheartedly to music during his years there and has continued on at the high school just as enthusiastically. Lloyd, on the other hand, just about gave up on the violin in junior high.
I remember him as a 13-year-old sitting slumped behind me in an armchair in my office while I blared Dave Matthews' “Ants Marching” and “The Last of the Mohicans,” two cool songs with engaging strings that I hoped would entice him to play along and reignite his lost passion.
The violin sat on his lap.
Things between them almost ended - abruptly - two weeks before, though truthfully, they'd been on the rocks since Lloyd was about 10. That was the time of the First Violin War, an apocalyptic parenting moment, complete with yelling and threats and stalemates, followed by the stark realization that I had crossed the beginning of the end of my role as commander-in-chief.
But a deeper truth is that Lloyd and the violin had been together forever, into their ninth year, and they courted even before that.
As a toddler, Lloyd offered rapt attention to any string music he came across - live or recorded, contemporary or classical - and as a preschooler, he brought the same toy guitar to show and tell every Friday, while truly longing for a violin.
When he entered kindergarten that fall, something magical happened: the school instituted a pilot program with the Brattleboro Music Center, and Lloyd came home carrying a case with the real thing inside.
Despite his passion, Lloyd was not a virtuoso, but he stuck with it, year after year, and so did the school, deciding to continue the program until the fourth grade, when children could begin traditional band instruments.
Many of Lloyd's peers gave up the violin in favor of a flute or a trumpet or a drum, but not him. He kept playing until he was the only one holding a violin, which is where we found him at the beginning of 8th grade:
“I want to quit,” he says. “I can't take it anymore.”
But he wasn't resolute. He was miserable. Torn. Angry and frustrated. Feeling betrayed, by himself.
I wasn't sure how to help. Our tempers mounted.
With so much at stake, I felt the Second Violin War coming on. I quickly composed an email to family members. The replies flooded in.
Do what you want, said one. You can always pick it up again. Stick with it, said another. You'll never pick it up again.
In the end, he stuck with it, but halfheartedly. But once in high school, he left the instrument behind, while watching his little brother, five years his junior, following in his footsteps, sticking with violin - so wholeheartedly that it inspired him to pick it up now and again “just to see how it sounds” (and to see if he could still play better than his younger brother).
Lloyd is grown now, a man of 20, and to our surprise, he recently called to say: “I think I want to start playing again.”
We don't know what will come of this spark, but it warms us, particularly in its timing.
* * *
We attended David's funeral together. No one even balked at the suggestion. Not Lloyd, who was leaving that afternoon on the train for Burlington. Not my husband, Casey, who had to arrange coverage for his classes. Not Aidan, who was, well, 15.
The music was exquisite; the service, solemn and playful and irreverent. At one point, a handful of children came forward to play some of David's pieces for beginners. I nudged a reluctant Aidan to join them. He sat firm in his seat until he saw a peer across the room move toward the altar.
Aidan swiftly brought the violin case, hidden between his knees, to his lap, and as he did, I felt the collective attention of all those who shared the private mourning space around us.
We watched transfixed as he opened each latch and carefully lifted the instrument from its bed, and then there was a palpable embrace as he approached the altar on our behalf.
When the children began the last of three pieces, we were invited to hum along, after which we accidentally broke into the applause we had held inside for the soloists who had so stirred us earlier.
As Aidan rejoined us at the end of the pew, I turned toward him to mouth the words “thank you” just as he locked eyes with mine, nodding his head and offering the same - not once or twice, but a handful of times: “Thank you. Thank you. Thank you...”
The sky was a stunning blue as we exited the temple doors that afternoon. The surrounding streets were lined with the cars of those who had come to grieve David's departure - students, colleagues, family, friends.
As we walked, Lloyd spoke to me of the music, of the viola solos, played by two of David's cousins.
“I could barely breathe,” he said. “I couldn't remember how.”