Trombone Follies

Concert Band started for us in fifth grade. A posh man from the nearby big town of Mitchell came to demonstrate the wide variety of instruments from which to choose. I fell madly in love with the saxophone -- my mom insisted I play the ancient hand-me-down trombone we had at home.

Throughout my years at Ethan Public Schools, I played in the school band and attended yearly music competitions. I grew to love playing the instrument even though most trombone sections consisted of all males. With my paper route money, I bought a beautiful new trombone that I own to this day.

In college, I minored in music; therefore, joining the band was a must. The band director was a soft-spoken man. His serious demeanor caused me anxiety, so I worked vigorously to gain his approval. I did not meet this goal during my freshman year at Mount Marty College.

For my first concert, Mom and Dad drove to Yankton to show their support. I chose to wear my new bright-red pencil skirt to the concert and spent extra time fixing my hair and makeup. Once I arrived, the risers on the stage proved my attire was a mistake.

When I began my ascent up the risers, I realized a pencil skirt didn't lend itself to easy top row access. Luckily the curtains were drawn while the director welcomed the audience, so no one noticed my complete lack of grace.

Once in place the curtains opened, and the spotlight shone brightly upon us. The director raised his arms and was about to begin our countdown, when I decided it would be wise to move my slide quickly back and forth to equally distribute the newly applied oil. Wrong decision.

My sweaty hand lost its grip on the slide and off it flew until it landed with a literal bang on the kettle drum. All eyes were plastered on me as I attempted to sink into the riser. Mr. Dean glared at me and waved his button toward the offending slide.

Did the drum section kindly hand me my slide? No, they did not. I methodically crept down the risers to sheepishly retrieve it. My walk of shame (much like the "day after" walk) to and from the top row aged me considerably.

The rest of the concert was uneventful. My parents hugged me goodbye with a promise to return in a few weeks for our Homecoming performance. Little did we know at the time my humiliation had only just begun.

At Mount Marty students were required to live in the dorms. Homecoming Saturday arrived and I excitedly prepared for my parents’ arrival for the game where I would have a chance to redeem myself by playing in the pep band. The dorms didn't serve breakfast on weekends, so the upperclassmen invited me to a pre-game party. I was beyond giddy to be included.

At the party, I realized there wasn't any food being served. Instead, there was trashcan punch with a bunch of cut up fruit in the bottom of each can. I didn't want to drink alcohol on an empty stomach, so I loaded up a cup with the fruit. Some of my friends gleefully shared their fruit with me.

Back on campus, I grabbed my trusty trombone and wobbled to the game. I saw Mom and Dad at the game and waved enthusiastically to them. I was feeling extremely confident and ridiculously happy. I giggled and chatted and slipped and slid my way to the bleachers and warmed up with the rest of the band. It was a fabulous day to be young and alive and playing the trombone!

Our fight song was first on the list. I raised the mouthpiece to my lips and DID NOT move my slide until Mr. Dean gave the countdown. I played my trombone better than I had ever played before.

When the song ended, I felt warm and jolly all over. I certainly made up for the careless mistake at the concert with today’s artful performance. The director was headed towards me, probably to recognize my prowess, and I optimistically welcomed his praise.

"Tara," Mr. Dean declared, "you forgot to move your slide." Next, he sternly sent me back to my dorm to sober up.

Apparently, when one makes trashcan punch, the fruit is soaked all night in Everclear. Everyone brings juice to add to the concoction the next day, which was a fact I was unaware of until later.

My freshman trombone follies taught me two valuable lessons:

1. Wear pants to concerts.

2. Upperclassmen suck!