I don't know if I should post this here or in "My Eglish Papers" but I'm here now so here goes. Yeah, I got an "A" on this narriative too:
Joseph Corlett
English 1510
Professor Rebecca Rivard
August 29, 2008
Blood on the Banjo
“Hit the right note!” my mother screamed in her famous fingernails-on-the-chalkboard tone of voice. I was thirteen years old, forced to practice my trumpet, and I hated it. The war between us had begun.
My problem started with my brother Thomas, who is five years older than I am. He could get music out of the silverware drawer by clicking spoons together or by pounding out a beat on the dashboard of a car. He devoured the music book that came with his elementary school plastic flute and soon had the theme from the old television series “Combat” memorized. Combining his natural perfect pitch with his pit bull determination to practice creates a professional musician in short order.
I remember Mr. Barrett, my brother’s clarinet teacher, as a kindly older gentleman with wire frame glasses. He would stop by the house every week for lessons. Doctors still made house calls in those days too. By the time my brother was in his late teens, he was playing clarinet and saxophone professionally. My dad had to drive him to the Polish National Hall in Toledo, Ohio, and I’d go along. He’d play polkas with a group of guys my dad’s age. My mom loved the music and was bursting with pride for her son. Her greed for a second musician in the family would be our undoing.
It was decided that I would play the trumpet and my younger sister Kay would try the clarinet. All the natural talent and determination in my brother was in absolute inverse proportion in my sister. She was virtually tone deaf, had little dexterity and no will to practice or make music. The bleating sharp’s and flat’s emanating from the bell of her horn would be suitable only for elevator music on the decent into hell.
Unfortunately, I was stuck in the netherworld between the two of them. I have the perfect pitch of my brother and even enjoyed playing an occasional polka. My trumpet teacher complimented me on the quality of my tone and told my mom. I didn’t get the pit bull practice gene my brother had. I despised the scales and drills and every minute spent playing them was torture.
It was obvious to my mother early on that my sister wasn’t going to make it as a musician so she was mercifully allowed to quit. With my excellent tone and ear as evidence, my mother figured all she needed to do was superimpose her will over my lack of practice. The ensuing battle of wills would have more damaging consequences to our relationship, now and in the future, than either of us could have imagined.
Of course, my misery wasn’t confined to home practice; I had to be in the school band also. That meant lugging the heavy case back and forth to school every day. Probably the most important aspect of teenage life is looking like all the other kids and fitting in. The bulky trumpet case did nothing for my look, so I built a smaller one in my grandfather’s workshop. I may have looked just as nerdy, but I felt a little better.
I remember despairing at practicing so much that I pushed the bell of my horn into the floor so hard it crinkled. We had to have it straightened at the music store and there was always a small abrasion where it happened as a reminder. I’m still amazed I didn’t get in more trouble over that incident.
I will never forget getting kicked out of the school band for misbehavior on the eve of Junior High Night, the social highlight of the year. As I was preparing to go that evening, my mom told me: “Mr. Brewer called. He said he kicked you out of the band.” I knew my night was doomed and she ordered my dad to “Take care of this.” My dad lead me into the stairway where my mom can’t see and as he’s removing his belt, he said “This is going to hurt you a lot worse than it’s going to hurt me.” He winked and whispered, “Be sure to make a lot of noise.” He gently brushed the belt past my butt a few times and I fake-wailed all the way upstairs. Apparently satisfied, my mom let me go to the dance anyway.
My mother was a bit of a musician herself. She was given accordion lessons as a child and my grandmother even had studio portraits taken of her posed with her accordion. This was considered a luxury during the great depression. I remember her singing and playing her accordion intermittently throughout my life.
My brother began playing guitar and formed a small group similar to their idols, Peter, Paul and Mary. I developed a serious teenage crush on Sandy Boothby, the girl in the group who sang Mary’s part. Thomas taught himself the banjo and played until his fingers bled. This only encouraged my mother to push me harder and I was soon reinstated to the school band.
Eventually, she relented and we recovered the best we could.