Trombones And Stinky Socks

Once a window wide
sheers fluttered in the breeze
lilted in flight by percussive lightness
flowing streamlike cross hardwood floors
like the footsteps of a wood nymph stealing away
awed by the majesty of Winston
playing sunlit strings, deep tones rumbling pleasure
at the crystal peals of Pachelbel.

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My family is quite musical, a way of entertaining ourselves when we lived far away from the movie theatres and night life in town.

Pen played some guitar, Rich fooled with my Grandad’s banjo, JL played the baritone horn, Pam and Dode both played piano and clarinet, and myself, well, I started off playing the tuba until it became a royal pain taking it back and forth to school in the newspaper carrier on my bike. It was replaced by a trombone, a lovely instrument that I still have, collecting dust in the back corner of my office.

By far the best musician in the family was my Father. Growing up in northern Saskatchewan his Mother was determined that he learn some culture. She was also a fine pianist I understand, which she passed along to my Father.

Father rarely played the piano, usually during nasty southeasters when the lights would go out and we could gather around the hurricane lanterns in the living room. Then he would adjust the piano stool and set into an amazing string of pieces, mostly Schottisches or minstrel songs like ‘Old Black Joe’. In the half dark his fingers would fly over the keyboard, making the old Heintzmann literally sing out. Then when the lights came back on, he would close the lid on the piano, stand up slowly and walk away sadly, thinking about his Mother.

In Grade 6 the school decided it was time to begin a music program and school band. We all sat down in the library and took the Seashore Music Inventory test to see what instrument, if any, we would be the most adept at. I kind of messed up filling out the answers on the sheet, resulting in a score that indicated I was tone deaf to the extreme (I am not and have sung in choirs for years!). There was an opening in the band for a tuba player though, and it was decided that I would be a good candidate for this oversized mess of tubes.

On the tuba I was less than stellar. I am sorry but having a grand total of 2 notes in a song (ooom and pahhh) does not get the creative juices flowing. Not to mention trying to see past the instrument in my newspaper basket as I scaled Hardy’s Hill! My parents allowed me to play the tuba for a month then suggested firmly to my teacher that another instrument might be more appropriate.

Thus I was handed a trombone, still a bass brass instrument but one to flex creative muscles with. In fact I flexed the muscles so creatively that my Mother suggested putting a pair of rolled up socks in the bell when practising! This was to have an embarrassing effect when later I forgot to remove the socks prior to a performance, ejecting them across the stage when attempting fortissimo in ‘The William Tell Overture’!

John Palmer, the other trombone player, was an accomplished musician, piano as I remember and he carried me through a lively duet of ‘Five Foot Two’ during the final Grade 6 concert of the season. My parents beamed, Dode rolled her eyes from the clarinet section and JL nipped out the back for a smoke.

All good.