I was seeking confirmation of an idiom recently, and stumbled upon this gem: “Close only counts in horse shoes and hand grenades.” I immediately thought, “..and drive in movies.” Instantly, I was brought back to late elementary and middle school.
Mr. Brown was our band instructor. He was excellence personified. I chose the flute in 5th grade. I bought a used open holed flute at Mr. Brown’s recommendation (because it affords the opportunity to create tonal differences and is used by professionals as opposed to plateau models with closed holes, naturally). I polished and loved that flute. I still have it to this day. I spent hours and hours practicing in my room, wanting to honor my teacher’s talent by delivering my very best. He always told me “If you were any sharper, you’d have to go to college.” It made me feel special rather than tonally challenged.
Our little school had a beautifully involved student body. We had a marching band for football season. We’d practice on the streets of Pomeroy and although we had incredibly basic formations, we walked and re-walked those streets around the school -nsuring our feet were in sync and in our line you could only see the person next to you. The football players marched with the band at half time. It was that kind of town.
I played my flute in various competitions, memorizing songs that would best showcase my budding talents. Concerned they weren't advanced enough to wow a judge. Worried I’d never get them memorized in time. Having ample time on my hands to play them again and again until they became muscle memory for my fingertips over those open holes. We all rode on buses to these events, and the wait in the hallways before performing was always intense. The ride home was often spent asleep, a product of an adrenaline rush faded into glory.
One of my favorite band memories was playing at home basketball games. The flute was incredibly superfluous in our school’s song. And in pep band, in general. It was one of the rare times I wished I played a brass instrument. The camaraderie of the band was such a warm culture. The bleachers under your butt. The entire town filling the stands and cheering on the Cyclones. The smell of floor wax. Popcorn concessions and soda served in styrofoam cups. Sneaking peaks at neighboring town’s boys in the halls.
But I digress….back to the band. The music lover in me found such joy in my band days, both at Pomeroy and Belle Plaine (where I moved at 15). Today, I raise a toast to Mr. Brown (and Mr. Schlesselman who inherited me in the move).
Mr. Brown was our band instructor. He was excellence personified. I chose the flute in 5th grade. I bought a used open holed flute at Mr. Brown’s recommendation (because it affords the opportunity to create tonal differences and is used by professionals as opposed to plateau models with closed holes, naturally). I polished and loved that flute. I still have it to this day. I spent hours and hours practicing in my room, wanting to honor my teacher’s talent by delivering my very best. He always told me “If you were any sharper, you’d have to go to college.” It made me feel special rather than tonally challenged.
Our little school had a beautifully involved student body. We had a marching band for football season. We’d practice on the streets of Pomeroy and although we had incredibly basic formations, we walked and re-walked those streets around the school -nsuring our feet were in sync and in our line you could only see the person next to you. The football players marched with the band at half time. It was that kind of town.
I played my flute in various competitions, memorizing songs that would best showcase my budding talents. Concerned they weren't advanced enough to wow a judge. Worried I’d never get them memorized in time. Having ample time on my hands to play them again and again until they became muscle memory for my fingertips over those open holes. We all rode on buses to these events, and the wait in the hallways before performing was always intense. The ride home was often spent asleep, a product of an adrenaline rush faded into glory.
One of my favorite band memories was playing at home basketball games. The flute was incredibly superfluous in our school’s song. And in pep band, in general. It was one of the rare times I wished I played a brass instrument. The camaraderie of the band was such a warm culture. The bleachers under your butt. The entire town filling the stands and cheering on the Cyclones. The smell of floor wax. Popcorn concessions and soda served in styrofoam cups. Sneaking peaks at neighboring town’s boys in the halls.
But I digress….back to the band. The music lover in me found such joy in my band days, both at Pomeroy and Belle Plaine (where I moved at 15). Today, I raise a toast to Mr. Brown (and Mr. Schlesselman who inherited me in the move).
Band geeks – unite!
No comments:
Post a Comment