In the 4th grade I decided to learn the viola and
joined the school orchestra. That
endeavor lasted a year. While others
excelled, I broke strings and learned to make noises that resembled cats dying
in an alley rather than beautiful melodies.
In the 5th grade I decided to switch from
orchestra to band. The cornet was my
instrument of choice. My mother had
played the cornet at Bowlegs High (seriously—Bowlegs, Oklahoma). Evidently she was pretty good, even using
the horn my grandparents bought for her at a Seminole, Oklahoma second hand
store. She kept it polished and would occasionally
pull it out of its case and play a few notes for us. Rather than purchase a new horn for me, the cornet
was brought out from the closet and became mine for the year. There was a problem. Even though Mom could muster up a few notes,
it was still old (heavens…it was second hand when Mom got it—now it was “third
hand” for me!). I could barely get a
note out of it. How I even passed band
that year, I do not know. I can’t
remember ever being able to play a single song on it. I gladly returned the horn to my Mother’s
possession at the end of the year.
Eventually the cornet became a decoration in our home. It sat upon a shelf—a source of
entertainment and laughs brought down on family reunions and gatherings. To try to blow a note could mean almost
passing out from the effort. Only Mom
could really play anything that remotely resembled music. The rest of us could make it sound like a
cow needing to be milked at best or someone with bad gastric problems at worst.
Mom’s home was demolished in the May 3, 1999 tornado. Possessions and memories were swept away
with the wind. Under a wall—a few more
dents, not quite as pretty—was the cornet.
Digging more we found muddied photo albums…and the photo of Mom in her
Bowlegs High band uniform.
Play on, Mom!
