MUSIC

    There’s nothing in this world, as far as I‘m concerned, that can bring a sense of peace and tranquility to a person like a well played piece of music.  Unfortunately, in my childhood years, peace and tranquility were not very abundant in our house.  Music, despite all it’s wondrous effects, can also cause one to periodically miss the evening news.
    My older brother, Jarrett, my younger sister, Carla, and I, all made attempts at learning to play an instrument.  It should be noted that my brother and I are still unaccomplished in music, while my sister has become quite the expert pianist.  But, in the early years, even she could send even the most ardent music lover in search of a set of earplugs.
    I have to admit, the recorder was the only instrument that I have ever attempted to play with any  seriousness.  Jarrett, briefly took a stab at mastering the trombone, and as I mentioned before, the piano was Carla’s instrument of choice.
    “I think it would be wonderful for you to join the school band,” my mother said, as she read over a copy of a sign up sheet that the school had sent home with my fifth grade brother.
    “Oh yeah, I’m definitely going to do it.  I love music and can’t wait to get started next year.”
    He may have loved music, but he hated math class.  Once a week, the band director would show up at our elementary school, and attempt to pass on his musical skills to a bunch of rowdy, unruly kids, who took band just to be excused from class for an hour.
    “Now look son,” mom said from her seat at the kitchen table, “if you’re going to do this, then we’ll have to buy you an instrument.  So, you need to take this seriously, because musical instruments aren’t cheap.”
    Even as a second grader, I knew his intentions well.  They had absolutely nothing to do with learning to play an instrument, and everything to do with skipping class.  “He just wants to get out of class,” I said, thankful that I sat on the opposite side of the table and had mom and dad there to protect me.  I had learned the hard way to never smart off to him without my body guards nearby.
    I sat quietly as my mom attempted to talk some sense into me.  “Look, if he wants to learn to play an instrument, then he’s going to get the opportunity.  You worry about second grade, and let me worry about him.”
    During the summer before the following school year, my mom was able to locate a used trombone which was being sold at a very good price.  The haggard looking lady who sold the slightly dented piece of brass to my mother, seemed unusually ecstatic to see the bellowing thing gone from her life.  “Oh we’ve had years of enjoyment from this trombone.  I hope you enjoy it as much as we did.  Good luck,” she said, before slamming the door in our face.  I thought I could see she and her husband dancing and giving high fives through the porch window, but I wasn’t sure.
    So began the Fix family’s journey down the musical road, which was very bumpy, and wouldn’t smooth out for years.  Every evening without fail during the following school year,  Jarrett would pull his trusty trombone from it’s worn case and blow incessantly for hours, while my father attempted to watch the evening news.  “Does he really have to practice that darned thing while I’m trying to watch the news!” dad would say, irritated that the onslaught of noise would begin promptly at six o’clock.
    “He needs to practice,” mom would answer, in defense of her 11 year old antithesis of Louie Armstrong.
    “He’s not getting any better, in fact, I think he’s getting worse!  Do you know what Arvil asked me the other day?  He wanted to know when we got a dying elephant for a pet!”  dad exclaimed, as he shut off the television and disappeared to quieter regions of our property.  Arvil Welcher was our older neighbor.  His children were grown, so apparently life at his house was a bit more tranquil that life at ours.
    Soon, my brother had mastered the trombone, although it was in his own special way.  “I’ve figured this whole thing out.  There are several other trombone players in our band, so I just PRETEND to play.  I just move the slide back and forth and nobody knows the difference.  I don’t even have to practice anymore!”  If that philosophy was adopted with concerns to baseball, my father would have had none of it.  But, with the trombone, he was all for it.
    That philosophy served him well until he was given a brief solo part, in which the rest of the band stopped playing, and required him to actually blow a few notes alone.  But, I must admit, he stuck to his guns.  During a concert, in which the school gym was packed with eager onlookers, he put his new trombone playing philosophy to work.  During the first number, the band stopped, and he silently moved his slide to and fro, without ever emitting the slightest sound.  He even continued to tap his foot slightly on the floor, and swayed his head from side to side, all while he faked his part. He had guts.  This was accomplished in front of an auditorium full of anxious families and school faculty members, who stared in wonderment at my parents, while they sat deathly still and never allowed their eyes to stray from the stage.  The following year, his band experiment would be finished.
    I never played in the band, but, as all fourth graders do, I was charged with learning to play the recorder.  Some people think that the recorder isn’t actually an instrument, but since it does have the capability of multiple notes, I prefer to think it was.  I have always been the kind of person who lets certain things worry me.  Sometimes my worry would be due to fear of embarrassment, or, well, that’s it.  Just the fear of embarrassment.   Toward the end of my fourth grade year, we would be forced to play several songs solo, as well as a few pieces with the entire class.   The group songs didn’t bother me much, but the solo parts had me very concerned.
    “Mom, I need to make sure I have these songs memorized.  I’m worried that I won’t learn them, and Mrs. Deaton is pretty rough at times,” I said, with a deeply troubled look on my 9 year old face.
    “You’ll need to practice,” she replied.  “Finish your other homework and then each day, you can spend a little time with the recorder.  You’ll have it memorized in no time.”  Usually, by the time I had finished my homework, my dad had come home from work and had settled into his easy chair to watch the evening news.  He had enjoyed two years of uninterrupted news viewing since Jarrett had retired from playing the trombone, but as always, all good things must come to an end.
    “Does he really need to practice that darned thing every time I attempt to watch the news!  I swear, those boys couldn’t carry a note in a bucket!  It’s awful!  Do you know what Arvil asked me the other day?  He asked me why I refused to change the battery in our smoke detector!  I told him the detector was fine, it was the middle child responsible for all the chirps, beeps and chimes he heard.”  With that, he exited the house, surely to seek solace from the screeching recorder.
    I did make it through the fourth grade, and thus my musical career came to an end.  But, there was one more child left to delve into the complicated world of music…my little sister.
    One evening, my mother made the announcement that kindergarten would be a fine time for Carla to begin taking piano lessons.  “I think we should go ahead and get Carla piano lessons.  The sooner the better, you know?”  she said, excitedly.  Dad, who was sitting in his favorite chair reading the newspaper, suddenly lowered the paper, and peered over the top, with his eyes darting around the room.  His head reminded me of a submarine’s periscope, breaking the ocean’s surface, scanning the seas for danger. 
    “Uh, whatever you think,” he said.  I could see the look on his face by that time, and it surely was a result of my brother’s and my earlier attempts at making music.  “I don’t know, look how it turned out for the boys.  Maybe we should leave well enough alone,” he continued.  I figured that he was worried that once again, he’d be left out in the cold concerning world events, sports, politics, etc., due to missing the evening news at the hands of a noisy piano.
    Bling, blong, dong, ding, pling, came a barrage of noises from our living room, soon after Carla began taking piano lessons.  In the early days of her attempted mastery of the piano, she became quite capable of imitating the sounds of many a great piano player.  Unfortunately,  those sounds were surely after a night of the great ones immersing themselves in the finest liquors known to man.  Every evening, without fail, she would rise from the dinner table and head to the piano to begin banging out notes like a concert pianist.  Of course, concert pianists had the advantage of performing in very cavernous assembly halls and auditoriums, very different from the comfy confines of our home, where the irritated father was attempting to catch up on the latest news.
    “Good lord!  What’s she doing in there?  The windows are shaking!” my exasperated father exclaimed as he once again headed out the back door to a quieter existence.
    “She needs to practice,” my mom quipped, as she had done years before, trying to defend the fuzzy headed Fats Domino in the making. 
    After a few years the blings, pings and bongs, turned into rather enjoyable music.  Carla soon began playing weddings, funerals, church gatherings, and many other events.  She had become a very good pianist.  My brother and I still haven’t mastered a musical instrument, but one thing is for sure.  In our brief foray into the world of musical instruments, we made a lasting impression on our father, and Arvil, the neighbor.  But at long last, he has been able to watch the evening news, uninterrupted, for years.