This happened 19 years ago, but I’ve never forgotten it and, alas, have not followed up on these remarkable musicians but would love to know how they are doing. I suspect they are doing very well because their talent on stringed instruments is like no other. Here’s my memory of that evening:

It would be boring. Majorly. I did not want to go. But my husband did, and so for him I chose the martyr route, sighed (loudly, so he’d hear) and said “OK, OK, I’ll go.”

It was at the Chocolate Church Arts Center in Bath, where a musical group named “The Ying String Quartet” would be performing.

“Maybe,” I thought, “it won’t be all bad. Maybe they’ll do a couple of mercy comedy numbers in addition to their classical repertoire.”

Thus, in a Diluvial rainstorm, we headed out, parked the car and squished our way to our seats. The rain pounded maniacally against the roof, but exactly on schedule and as promised, on stage walked the Yings.

Kids! I mean, you could practically see the wet glistening behind their ears in the spotlight. Nary a wrinkle on any of those glowing faces, nor a pair of glasses, not one orthopedic shoe or an arthritic swelling amongst the lot. I’m not sure, but I think a couple of the brothers hadn’t even begun to shave.

“These striplings, these adolescent pups were going to play classical music for us? Holy mackerel, have they even graduated from anywhere yet?” I thought, and wished I’d brought a good book and a tiny flashlight. I sighed again (loudly, so he’d hear) and then these neonates began to play.

And, you guessed it, they were mesmerizing. Forgetting the rules about not clapping during classical music numbers (Are they called “numbers” in classical music? Do classical musicians play “gigs”?) I erupted into thunderous applause after the first movement was completed, but fortunately my husband, just exactly in time, slammed his hand on mine and squeezed rather more tightly than he really needed to.

I have to confess that it wasn’t altogether the Ying tykes’ musical prowess that impressed me. It was more the fact that these three brothers and a sister all got along in peaceful harmony! None of them turned and belted the other when a note was misplayed (I wouldn’t have known anyway), none glared at a slightly off-rhythm, no vicious shin kicks at a tiny musical goof. All four seemed to enjoy each other’s company and anxious to get the job done properly.

I could not help but consider, had it been our three sons up there and one of them blundered, the audience would have been treated to an on-stage roiling, rolling ball of epithets, fisticuffs and flying sections of bows and stringed instruments.

What exactly did Mr. and Mrs. Ying do to get their four children to work so well together? I want to know. If I could get hold of these people, I might uncover the knowledge to forever change the way parents raise children. We and their kids could write a book together — “Stunning Breakthrough Developments in Child Rearing” by Ying and Ying, in collaboration with Ying, Ying, Ying, Ying and Van Savage. The new Drs. Spock!

Sure, our boys played musical instruments. Second-born picked the tuba, and we so awfully enjoyed having that brass behemoth dropped every afternoon in the center of our living room, forcing us to walk a block out of our way to get to another room (to say nothing of the fact that his practice sessions blasted us into the next neighborhood). Then he chose the drums. I will truly never forget trying to speak on the phone while he practiced, my frantically dragging the instrument from room to room as I screamed imploringly at the caller to please, PLEASE speak up! (This was obviously way back before cell phones had arrived in the world.)

First-born tried the piano, but after the Agony of Practice, gave it up with our total blessings. He took up the guitar (unplugged) and did pretty well at it. I had an especially high regard for this instrument because it was quiet and easily kicked out of the way.

Third-born took classical piano for years, and I never minded those interminable recitals (which required I purchase a new suit he outgrew in 12 hours, well before I discovered Goodwill), and I never minded once a week sitting outside in freezing weather, waiting for his lessons to finish. I, however, did experience the tiniest twinge when, after thousands of dollars and years of time, he suddenly, I think it was on a Wednesday, decided he “didn’t like it anymore.”

How did familia Ying keep their kids away from TV long enough to be able to recognize a violin from a trombone? How did they con them into thinking it far more fun to practice on the viola for six hours a day than it is to hang at the mall? What exactly were the words they used to persuade their young that carrying a cello to school was cooler than carrying a weapon? How did they get these kids to behave themselves at home, to practice their music so diligently they would, barely into their teens, be in demand to play concerts across the land (including the White House) and all over the world? I must know their secret! I’ll bet the Ying kids even made their beds, did their dishes and never threw wet towels on the floor.

The Ying’s music that dark and stormy night was thrilling, except for Bartok, who I can live without because his weird compositions make me think that Louise Nevelson had an affair with Salvador Dali in some other life, and Bartok was their offshoot. I was also grateful that the group didn’t play any Bach because for me, Bach is Blecchh. (Please forgive me, Bach lovers. It’s just that it sounds as though all he did was compose pounding scales exercises on a loud, tinny harpsichord. Please, do not send me hate letters. What do I know?)

But those Ying kids played Mendelssohn and Brahms to die, if you ask me. And their encore (I forget the name but recall that in the 1950s someone had the gall to put words to it; I think it was called “This is My Beloved”) had me blubbering idiotically and ready to leap onto my seat to whoop my appreciation. (I stopped myself before totally mortifying my long-suffering husband.)

The Ying brood finally finished and walked off the stage. Everyone stood and applauded, the rain and wind booming outside in unison. No one wanted these astonishingly talented pubescents to stop playing. But mostly, I was applauding their parents. If you’re reading this, Mr. and Mrs. Ying, please, call me. Collect! We’re talkin’ mega best seller here!

LC Van Savage is a Brunswick writer.