A little cello music.

My husband is taking cello lessons. He practices a scale, up and down, and the sound swells the house. It is not yet melodious - more like a mama grizzly in labor, or a headache that has not quite visited the temples. At best the low notes rattle on the breast-bone like a horror-movie soundtrack - impending doom, close-up on the victim's hand reaching for the knob: DON'T OPEN THAT DOOR! Our children shut themselves up in their bedrooms. Our dog scratches at the back entrance, begging for mercy.

The cello itself is a thing of beauty, despite the unlikely growls coming from it. Its polished wooden curves glow in the lamplight. It nestles between my husband's legs, a lovely place to be, and he draws the bow across its strings smoothly, caressingly, his ear bent to hear the notes. He looks peaceful and, if he weren't wearing blue jeans, of another century. He makes an occasional sound, whether of dismay or satisfaction I cannot tell.

And as crazy as it is - he doesn't have the time, we don't have the money, he's thirty-six years old, for God's sake - I love him for this. I love him for bringing this enormous instrument into the house and driving us all to distraction. I love him because he looks at a cello and is not daunted.

My husband has always been willing to try new things. It is a quality that often led him to grief in his adolescence, but that serves him well as an adult. In his teaching career he is a groundbreaker, a forward thinker. As a father he is a first-rate adventurer, building doll houses from scratch and trying out new recipes and scaling ever greater heights of computer literacy with our children. And as much as our children roll their eyes at the introduction of this velvety-throated stranger in the large zippered case, they are taking it in. They see that a person is never too old to grow.

Deep in his heart, my husband has always wanted to play the cello. He has music in his soul. When I first met him, he was never without his harmonica. He carried it the way some men carry a pocket knife, ready with some blues for any situation. Music of all kinds has always filled our house; the radio is always on in the car. He has taught our children to play the recorder, and has made up songs with goofy lyrics for them since their births. He lucked onto a cello teacher, complete with an instrument to loan, while setting up a music program for the school where he teaches. A boyhood dream was by chance fulfilled, the important lesson being that his dream was still accessible to his everyday consciousness. Mine are not so close to the surface.

So often we teach our children the defeats and surrenders of adulthood. We tell them how we could have been contenders - if only, if only. We urge them to learn from our mistakes, even though we do not. Reach for the stars, we say, as our hands dangle earthward. Never stop trying, never stop dreaming, we say; but if we ourselves, in little things and large, no longer try or dream, that is what we teach.

That is why I love my husband so, as the squawks and grunts emanate like digestive problems from his cello, as he squints at the music on the stand, as he plays his piece. All the tired lessons, like practice makes perfect, and try, try again, and the one about the new leaf - all spring to life as he embodies them for us, he and his blessed, bellowing cello.

He's almost got "Moon River" down. By Christmas I expect we will hum along to bass-clef carols. Even among the angels, there must be some who sing with unlikely voices.