It was a beautiful, cool May evening on Temple Square. I had made the trip in perfect timing from Tooele. I greeted friends on my walk towards the downstairs case room of the Tabernacle, still affectionately referred to as the “horseshoe.” I settled my case—which happens to look like a gray, miniature, lightweight version of a cello case—down next to two friends who were discussing their graduation with their music degrees ten years prior. I took out my phone from my purse and snapped their picture when asked, and then proceeded to open my case to get my instrument out. Only, upon opening the latches, I immediately busted out laughing at the sight that met my eyes. No violin. No bow, no shoulder rest, no nothing! After many merry chuckles, and thinking back on the only other time in my life that had happened, when I was about seven years old at a violin lesson and received a stern reprimand from my mother for forgetting my instrument on the piano at home, I showed my friends the empty case and decided to immediately come clean to the orchestra manager. Luckily, my heart was calm, as my violin wasn’t entirely missing. I knew exactly where it was: on my violin stand at home, where I frequently leave it out so I’ll be more prone to practice. And if you're wondering, that strategy actually works for me!

I brought my case to Bro. Saville, who was catching up with some friends, for a little Show and Tell. I decided to let him discover the dilemma in the same way I had, so in great ceremony, I simply prefaced my demonstration with, “I have something to show you.” I undid the latches and showed him the empty interior. Afterward, he confessed that he had been very cautious to see what I was about to pull out of there. Together, we ascertained that there was no extra violin (not surprisingly) in the orchestra storage area. I asked, in essence, “What now?” I even offered to stay and watch the rehearsal to show my contrition and satisfy any attendance expectations to the full possible extent. But he immediately dismissed that idea. He said, “Well, at least you made the drive out here,” and told me I could go home early. And then in a subdued tone, he let me know I could come play the broadcast on Sunday. I reassured him that, provided there was no new piece, I had almost certainly played the repertoire multiple times before. He said, “Actually, there is a new piece,” so we agreed that I’d get there at least fifteen minutes early to look it over before the Sunday rehearsal. I felt a little like Bob Cratchit from Dicken’s A Christmas Carol, who bravely pled for grace from a strict employer and was unexpectedly given the day off for the upcoming holiday. Relieved, I’m sure, Cratchit was almost certainly eager to agree to the stipulation to “be here all the earlier the next morning!” I was agreeable, too! Except that in my case (haha, no pun intended), I felt a little guilty for getting time off, as it was in response to a silly error of my own. I had a lot of explaining to do to the curious crowds of singers and instrumentalists trickling in to the building as I headed back to the parking garage. Carrying my case, I was clearly and unexpectedly going the opposite and “wrong” direction.

I was amused. Honestly, as I thought about it, this wasn’t the end of the world. It had been too long since peals of laughter rang out in the horseshoe, and hearing my reaction spilling happily from my own vocal cords had done my body a world of good. As I explained the unexpected situation to others, their reactions ranged from “Oh no! Are you serious?” and “This is the stuff my nightmares are made up of,” to a myriad of other suggestions, such as “Use the Think System!" (Think Meredith Wilson’s The Music Man.) Someone else quipped, with a wink and a smile, “You could always air bow, right?” I told one curious onlooker as she was rosining up her bow, “Well, that was the shortest rehearsal ever! See you Sunday.” But I don’t think she was aware of the situation or that I wasn’t just being sarcastic. (Clearly, she doesn’t know me. I tend to only ever NOT be serious with my husband . . . .)

I joked to another friend on the staircase on my way out, “Hey, you don’t happen to have an extra violin in your back pocket, do you?” as I continued to chuckle and shake my head at my forgetfulness and the unfortunate and inevitable consequences of the situation. At least if I got shifted to the back of the orchestra as a result of missing rehearsal, that wasn’t very different from my regular place.

I may never live this down. This is the kind of occurrence people talk about for months. I could imagine people years from now saying, “Hey, remember the time that violinist forgot her instrument at home?” But at least I’d be remembered for something!

At any rate, lesson learned. I suppose a punk kid out there, who is looking for a strategy to get out of a rehearsal she doesn’t want to be at, might be tempted to use a “forgotten instrument” as a handy excuse. But knowing in the depth of my heart that this was a complete accident, and luckily hadn’t happened to me before in the entire twenty-four years I had been a part of the Tabernacle Choir Organization, my conscience was completely clear, aside from the slight guilt that I was the lucky one getting an undeserved break (giving me just enough time to write this blog post, coincidentally), and the momentary regret that I had unnecessarily spent $7 on dinner on my way into town.