I took a trip to visit New York with my dad after graduating from high school. One of the places on his list for us to visit was a “rare violin shop,” since I played violin all four years and participated in the honor orchestra, as well. We made our way down the crowded streets and eventually stopped in front of a ritzy-looking, tall building. 

This sleek-looking building was not what I had pictured when I heard “rare violin shop.” I’d been imagining some street-level shop, open to the public, with some interesting and older violins on display, maybe with a luthier in the back. As we walked inside, took the elevator to the sixth floor, and stood in front of what appeared to be a private condo, I knew something felt off. I voiced my concerns to my dad as he rang the doorbell but was ignored. My dad had never been great at interpreting social standards. 

We were greeted by a receptionist who asked if we had an appointment, since they were by appointment only. I wanted the ground to swallow me whole and I was instantly hyper-aware of the sweaty, summer tourist outfits we had on. My dad eagerly told them that no, we didn’t but, gee, my daughter plays the violin with her high school orchestra and isn’t that great? And we would love to just pop inside and browse! Don’t mind us!

The receptionist gave him an odd look but took it in stride and excused herself to talk to someone behind a door. She came back with the owner, a well-dressed man, who told us that since he had no other appointments right now, he would love to give us a tour!

The starting price for a violin here, we found out, was 10k. He showed us around a very private-feeling and swanky-looking condo, pointed out a room where he casually mentioned he would chat with Joshua Bell when he came by, and opened the most interesting two-person safe I’ve ever seen to show me several multi-million-dollar violins. My jaw was on the floor the entire time. He dutifully and cheerfully answered every question my dad or I asked, and asked me questions in return about my orchestra and what pieces I liked to play, as well.

At the end, the man picked up a — lower-end, but still worth at least a million dollars! — Stradivarius and asked me to pizz a string while he held it. I very gingerly plucked a string and he triumphantly said, “There. Now you’ve played a Stradivarius.”

I don’t remember his name at this point, but to that man, I’m so glad that you ignored my dad’s bad manners and lack of social awareness and decided to take the time out of your day to show a no-appointment, non-customer around. You helped inspire me to continue loving and pursuing my instrument after high school! I still play to this day, and I’ve picked up some other instruments along the way, too!

(My youngest son starts playing drums around age eleven. We get him lessons and he is doing quite well. By about age thirteen, he is the drummer for our church’s youth band. By the time he is almost fifteen, I think he is at least as good as our main service drummer, and I want more chances for him to play. I also feel like the main service drummer has little, if any, enthusiasm when playing. I approach the church’s music director.)

Me: “[Music Director], [Son] is getting pretty good. Any chance you can put him in rotation to play?”

Music Director: “Hmm… I don’t know. He’s only fourteen.”

Me: “Being nine didn’t stop you from playing in an orchestra.”

Music Director: “Okay, point taken. I’ll put him in every other month.”

Me: “Thank you.”

(Skip to the following Sunday early morning; my phone rings.)

Me: *groggily* “What’s up?”

Music Director: “Can [Son] play drums this morning?”

Me: “Sure.”

Music Director: “Um… and every Sunday?”

Me: “Huh? What happened?”

Music Director: “[Main Service Drummer]’s wife found him at his girlfriend’s house this morning.”

Me: “Oops.”

(My son became a welcome change for me as he was always happy and enthusiastic. As for the main service drummer, I can only hope he patched things up with his wife; I never saw him again.)

(I work in an assisted living facility. A coworker is up near my desk on her break. There are tables near my desk and she’s sitting at one with a couple of residents. This coworker is… not the brightest bulb, to put it mildly.)

Coworker: “Can you put on Avahmarra for [Resident]?”

Me: “Put on what?”

Coworker: “Avahmarra. [Coworker #2] said it’s her favorite music.”

Me: “Oh…” *thinking* “Ava… Do you mean Ave Maria?”

Coworker: “Yeah, that’s it! Is that a solo singer? Or a group?”

Me: “It’s… a song… about Mary… from Christianity? Catholicism, in particular, I think.”

Coworker: “Oh… okay… I’ve never heard of it!”

(I’m not religious, but I’ve heard of it! Since I was a kid! It’s played all the time around the holidays. Her voice the whole time — and always, for that matter — was bubbly and cheerful. She had no clue that I was gob-smacked that she had no idea whatsoever what “Ave Maria” was. Jesus Christ… No pun intended.)

(I’m driving my five-year-old daughter to daycare, and on the way, we’re listening to a very popular rock radio morning show. Today, the hosts are comparing “Bohemian Rhapsody” to “Rocketman.” As I pull up to the daycare and I’m walking her inside, she says:)

Daughter: “Mommy! I didn’t know our Freddie Mercury was famous enough to be talked about on the radio!”

Me: “[Daughter], they weren’t talking about our cat. They were talking about the singer he was named after.”

Daughter: “But I like cats better…”

(I’m working at the register at a dollar store. The music played in the store comes from an oldies station playing songs from the 60s, 70s, and 80s. When Bob Seger’s “Old Time Rock-n-Roll” starts to play, I begin mouthing the lyrics in a noticeable way. A man in his late 50s to early 60s comes up and starts looking at me like I’m strange. I should also note that I am in my late 20s but can some days pass off as barely out of high school.)

Me: *stops mouthing along to greet the man* “Hello, sir! How are you today?”

Customer: “How are you familiar with this song? This came out waaaay before you were born.”

Me: “Well, music like this plays throughout the day here and I’m here about five days a week. Also, my dad used to listen to [local FM classic rock station], so I’m familiar with Bob Seger’s hits.”

Customer: “Shouldn’t you be listening to the crap that came from your generation? That ‘Millie Cyprus’ kid and ‘Missy Gaga’ or whatever that lady calls herself?”

Me: *brief pause* “I listen to a wide variety of things. I don’t care for Miley Cyrus, I do like some of Lady Gaga, and Bob Seger reminds me of a happy childhood when my siblings and I would go on family outings and listen to classic rock.”

Customer: *pays and walks off while mumbling under his breath* “What’s wrong with these kids nowadays?”

(Sorry my appreciation for music that’s older than me is so offensive to you.)