Facing the Music (4 page)

Back home, with my father, us girls had been moved from our country school to a school in town. For the first time ever, my sister and I would find ourselves separated during the day. Up until then, we had always been in the same classroom. Things were different in town. There were several classrooms for each grade, so we were assigned different teachers. As a result, we became more individual. She built a world with the friends in her class and I built one with mine. In doing so, we began to form a divide in our personal interests.

My identity with music was becoming decidedly my very own, and my new school had a lot of possibilities by which to explore it.

Unlike my country school, my new school had a dedicated
music room. Rather than the echoic, cold, and uncomfortable gymnasium, my new music room had carpet and permanent, tiered risers. The walls were decorated with posters of wildly gesticulating conductors and cartoons of composers like Bach, Mozart, and Beethoven. I didn't even know who any of these people were, but it didn't matter. They
were
music and the entire room was dedicated to them. No more duct-taped staves on the gym floor. Now, we had a blackboard painted with imperishable staff paper. And there were instruments, too! So many instruments, just lying around. There was a guitar and lots of percussion, like wood blocks, claves, and tambourines. I was in hog heaven! I was so ready to leave behind the childish lessons delivered by a stuffed toy frog. I wanted
more
, and everything about this room made my dreaming seem possible.

However, it was the music that happened after school hours that really stirred my lust. Every day of fourth grade, while I waited in line to board the bus back out to the country, I watched as what seemed every fifth grader from my school commandeered the auditorium. I watched, green with envy, as they unpacked extravagant instruments like saxophones, trumpets, snare drums, and flutes. All the noises of their bustling and tuning in preparation of a coming Sousa march had me aching with desire. Without question, I wanted in on the action. I couldn't imagine anything more wonderful than being able to have a saxophone all to myself. I still had my plastic recorder to go home to, but this  . . . this was sexy!

It was all I could to do imagine how I was going to survive a whole year until I was old enough to be a part of the fun. If piano lessons were out, asking my parents to buy me an expensive ­instrument
and
make a way for me to stay after school was going
to be a challenge of epic proportions. I couldn't be afraid of
no
. I had to find a way to press on.

FIFTH GRADE AND
sixth grade blew by and, with them, what appeared to my dream of joining the band. My parents couldn't get out of work to drive me home after band, so I had to be on that school bus every day. Through every Christmas that approached, I would plead my case for the season, hoping, at last, that my joy would be found under the tree—to no avail. I did my best to behave. I paid more than the average attention to my grades. Everything I did, I did with the motivation of pleasing my parents so that they would have no choice but to reward me. Undaunted and still yearning, I continued to keep my hopes alive. Soon, I would be entering junior high, where band was a class that I could take during school hours. It no longer required staying after school. It meant that I didn't have to worry about whether my parents had to make any changes in their work routines; all I needed now was the horn.

I had always imagined myself playing saxophone. It seemed similar to my much beloved alto recorder, only much more curvaceous and seductive. I did all the research, constantly pricing just how much it would cost, and mapping a barter system for the household chores, so that I could show I was willing to earn it. My parents seemed to be softening a bit.

“I played clarinet in high school,” my stepmother confessed. “Such a honky thing. There's no way you're bringing that screechy instrument into this house. You'll drive me crazy.”

“Okay. Okay? Not saxophone then,” I conceded. “Maybe something else then? Anything . . . I'll play anything. I just want to join the band.”

“If you do this, it's got to be something we can afford. We can't afford all the broken reeds and what-nots.”

Was this a light at the end of the tunnel?

Christmas that year came and went, but by spring the word came down. The words I had longed to hear for years.

“There's a program for private lessons through the city parks and recreation department this summer. Maybe it would be a good way for you to catch up with the other kids,” my stepmother finally offered.

“
Yes! Yes!”
I thought to myself. I couldn't believe it. But the rush of satisfaction quickly came to a halt when I realized that I was facing an agonizing decision.

Summer was the time that I spent with my mother. As it stood, we scarcely had enough time together. One factor that had led to an extended visit was that she had moved farther away from my hometown, making it difficult to keep up what was once our bimonthly schedule. We compromised with fewer visits during the school year by spending entire summer breaks with her. It wasn't lost on me what a predicament I was in.

I tried to maneuver without loss. “Maybe I could practice while I'm at Mom's?” I hoped aloud.

As usual, my options came down with limited discussion. “You want to play; you have to stay here for the summer. It's an option for both you girls if you want it,” she expanded. “We can go down to the music shop and pick out an instrument that we can afford, but it has to stay here.”

There it was. I was twelve years old, facing what would ulti
mately be a life-changing decision. Which sacrifice would I choose? That of losing the summer spent with my mother, or never getting to play?

Before I committed, I consulted with my sister.

She didn't seem flummoxed by options. There would be no drawing of straws to see which way we went together. I tried to convince her to join me, but music didn't seem to have the hold on her that it did on me. Her choice was going to Mom's. Whatever decision I made, it was going to be a choice I made on my own.

It would be the crossroads that would ultimately alter both our lives. Never before had we experienced being apart for more than the hours when we were at school in separate classrooms. We were developing our own identities, each with individual and unique desires. My imagination was captured with the call of music in a way in which she did not share. Faced with the opportunity to realize my dream, the idea of deciding against it seemed a choice against myself.

I knew what I wanted, apart from anyone else's influence. I wanted music. I chose to stay and she chose to go. I didn't know it then, but those days before the summer came would be the last we would share under the same roof.

I WILL NEVER
forget the day that my stepmother took me down to our town's only music store to buy my first horn. It was memorable in so many ways.

I was filled with excitement and unease in equal parts.
Strained as my stepmother's and my relationship was, we had little practice in how to share such a personal moment together. So fierce had words been between us at times, that I couldn't help but feel an overwhelming sense of caution. I wondered if I could trust her to know just how momentous this occasion was for me. I had dreamed about this day, but had never imagined that it would be she that walked me through it. I had always pictured my father taking me to the shop, having squirreled away his pennies, to help me in my endeavor. All that faded as soon as I walked into the store.

I had no idea what I was going to choose. It was already made clear that a saxophone was off the table, so what then? A flute? I picked one up and tried to play it, but it seemed awkward and too girly. Clarinet was on par with the sax, so no-go there. Drums? I didn't even bother. I wanted to make music; I didn't care about the beat. All that was left was the brass.

The trombone seemed pretty cool, alien with its slurry slide and it was as long as I was. The shopkeeper handed it over, gave me a few pointers in how to approach the imposing beast and I blew . . .
Phffflurrrrgh . . .
What came out was a noise akin to a dying calf. Hardly inspiring.

I began to sweat a little. There was a moment where I wondered if I wasn't made for this. How ridiculous would it be to have spent all those years pining and then have it turn out that I actually had no talent for it whatsoever?

“Maybe the trumpet?” the shopkeeper offered sheepishly.

He pulled the thing down from the display wall, cleaned off the mouthpiece, and handed it to me. Solid and heavy in my hands, it didn't exactly feel like the romance of music that lived in my head. Still, I had to try.

As directed, I put the cold, metal mouthpiece to my pursed lips and buzzed. To my amazement, what came out the other end was immediately recognizable. The noise I made actually sounded like the real thing. I pushed at the piston valves, making out differing notes.

I successfully voiced a low tone:
Whhuuaaaahh!

Then, as I was instructed, pursed tighter and with more air:
Whheeeeee!

Despite having no real clue as to what I was doing, the match seemed ordained. “It looks like we have a winner,” declared the keeper. “So, whaddya think?” he said, turning to my stepmother, ready to make the sale.

Minutes later I was walking out the door with my very own Conn Director. It wasn't a brand new horn, she came preloved, but she was mine now. A striking beauty she was, too. Unlike other trumpets, which were usually uniformly plated with the familiar golden brass, she had a rose-colored copper bell to help her stand out from the crowd. With a little practice, we were going to make wonderful music together.

Once I got her home, I put my head down and got to work. I had twelve weeks before school started. I didn't want to embarrass myself when I got to band class, so I tore into my books. I challenged my poor, tender lips to keep pace with what I wanted to accomplish. I played every minute of the day that I could physically handle.

After only a couple of weeks of practicing alone, I tripped into my first lesson. My practice had apparently paid off.

My instructor assumed that I had been playing for a couple of years, similar to the course that was expected of my peers. When I told him that I had just started, he seemed confused. He
tested my honesty. In his mind, there was no way I could be playing as well as I was in only a few weeks.

“You mean to tell me you
just
started playing? You didn't start in fifth grade with the other kids?”

“No,” I maintained. I was equally surprised that he found it questionable.

After a momentary pause, he moved on. “Well then, let's find something to challenge you.”

For the rest of the summer, he introduced and tested me with all manner of taxing exercises. Etudes, articulation drills, and slurring assignments. I ate it all up. I worked tirelessly at perfecting my skills and adored the work. It didn't hurt that my instructor said that I had talent. I relished the fact that I had a kind of gift that made me feel worthwhile. His endorsement encouraged me to press on. I couldn't wait to put my newfound skills to the test when school started again. At long last, I was going to be a member of the school band!

The end of that summer felt triumphant. There was so much to be happy about.

Though life in our home had been difficult at times, this summer had developed a different tone. My stepmother seemed more relaxed and less prone to anger. We were getting along, almost bonding even. The support that she had offered in helping me find my way to music seemed to open the door to a new understanding between us. For the first time in a very long time, it seemed like we all might be able to live in harmony.

I looked forward to my sister's return to the fold. I couldn't wait for her to share in what seemed a positive shift in our home. It had seemed that, in recent years, she and I had been struggling to stay connected to one another. Our past family struggles came
to affect us in different ways. I had found my hope through the lean times in reaching out through creative expression of writing and music. It wouldn't be until she came back home that I would learn about where she kept her own hope.