Band and the Power of the Suffix

So, last week on Facebook, a friend asked for recommendations on musical instruments for her 11 year old son to try. Since she asked my opinion, the trombone!

Hawthorne Junior High Marching Band

I played the trombone and loved it. My mother made, and I mean “made” me  because she played the trombone as a kid. My first high school t-shirt said, “Loud, Proud Poky Pep Band Member.”

There are many reasons the trombone is the instrument to play. You don’t have to worry about breaking and supplying reeds like the woodwinds to.  During marching band season when practices are in the early freezing cold, you can wear mittens and still play.  Trombones get to be loud in the pep band and often have fun solos. During football games, you can play the sliding crescendo with the kickoff’s rise and decent and the whole arena can hear you.  You can “accidentally” empty your spit valve on the saxophones if they are getting a little irritating or too-cool-for-school. 

When I was in band, I was the only girl who played a low brass instrument until my friend Nicole joined with the baritone. Apparently when my mom was young, there was a lot of drama among the predominantly female flutes and clarinets and she wanted to spare me that. My experience being the lone female among the trombones set up my social comfort nicely for the predominantly male settings of engineering.

My friend’s son is only allowed to begin with the trumpet, clarinet or saxophone. I get it. Fine. It is a rather large instrument, so I suggested he start with the trumpet. The trumpets and trombones are bound by brass. Transitioning to the trombone after the trumpet is pretty straightforward.

So note. He can begin as a clarinetist, saxophonist or trumpeter. The suffixes become especially important as a young band member when you get to the trombone. I was a trombonist, but in my excitement during seventh grade PE when telling my peers I was in the band, I mixed up my suffixes.

If you don’t talk to your kids about suffixes, someone else will. 

My peers talked to me to the point of terrible teasing that didn’t fade for what seemed like forever. When I told my mom about it, she encouraged me to laugh with them and play louder. So, I did.

When I got to high school, there was more teasing along these suffixed lines from my upper class volleyball teammates but a swift blast from my horn pointed right at them quelled it quickly. Words and suffixes are powerful, but they were no match for the trombone and any loud, proud pep  band member.

Crushed

Published in the Idaho State Journal on September 12, 2014

Sometimes a coincidence will sneak up on you like a crush. Other times a coincidence can simply crush you.

This past week, I had a checkup for my allergies and asthma. I was diagnosed with both before Kindergarten and I used to keep tabs on my inhaler like my present day smart phone.  Lifelong, I’ve only had two asthma-induced ER visits. For the most part, mine is a mild case of asthma. Now I keep track of my phone better than my inhaler.

As I was scurrying to make my 8am appointment, I reached for my perfume. Or cologne. Heck. It’s supposed to be a gender-neutral scent, so I don’t know what it’s called. Whatever. This is so beside the point. As I reached for my foo-foo fragrance, I stopped. I recalled the many of the faceless patients in the office waiting rooms of appointments past. I didn’t want to further aggravate pulmonary conditions of anyone who might be on oxygen or in respiratory distress. I also didn’t want a lecture from the doctor about perfumes and allergies, but mostly it was worrying about others that led to my day of mere shower freshness.

As I completed my morning hair-spiking and tooth brushing—I didn’t floss because I don’t see the dentist for at least three months— I thought of my friend Dottie and a column I wrote last October called “I can wear perfume to church again.”

 

In that piece, I talked about this quintessential sweet little old lady in the congregation who had just moved away to Arizona. Dottie had been on oxygen, and when I realized that she would have her big, green tank with her each week, I quit wearing perfume to church so I wouldn’t exacerbate her difficulty breathing. Upon her leaving, I just couldn’t bring myself to spray a spritz so soon after her departure.

Since that writing last October, I received a flowery card from Dottie and a friend request from her on Facebook.  Our most significant exchange over the last year occurred after I posted a picture of my labradoodle Bob in his custom-made cow suit. She messaged a plea to explain the cow suits and my Cow Suit Saturday blog. After I explained that it’s about embracing whimsy and recording people’s reactions, we talked about how darned handsome Bob is. Even in his ridiculous cow suit, my dog Bob is the bomb.

With Dottie on my mind, my asthma appointment was pleasantly uneventful. I had the usual breathing tests where I exhale with force until my lungs are empty and I see how far I can move the digital needle. I’m less competitive than I used to be with the process, but I was still curious about my performance. I mean results. I still wheeze. I still need an inhaler and I’m still not getting rid of Bob or any of my other animal allergens because I’m stubborn and I love them.

Before I left, I got a breathing treatment and was all set for my day. When I went home at lunch to let Bob and the others out to potty, my phone dinged with an alert.

Dottie passed away.

Whooosh. And my lungs were empty again. I had known that she wasn’t doing well, but what a coincidence. I was just thinking about her. I was crushed.

One Sunday before Dottie moved away she was kneeling in the communion line ahead of me. She was getting out of her kneel to return to her seat, when I noticed her start to stumble. I happened to be the one standing there to prevent her fall and offer a little support. We were fast friends after that.

I won’t be wearing perfume to church this weekend, but by golly, I’m going to wear my cow suit. (Not to church!) Dottie got a kick out of my cow suit escapades.

Pocatello’s last fun run of their series is this weekend. The cows, some friends and I in cow suits, will be on the route for a commemorative Cow Suit Saturday in Dottie’s memory. We will yell and cheer for the runners and walkers and offer a little support. With my asthma under control, I ought to be entering the run, but I’d much rather cheer.  Run fast, Friends and if you’re aiming for a personal best, crush it.

The Curve-wrecker

The first week of classes is over, and so are my quiet dog-walks around Holt Arena.  Welcome back, ISU students. I’m excited to report that I’m one of you again. I’m enrolled in a professional writing class.

I remember students like me. They were older, wiser, and didn’t play intramural games at 10pm. They read the assignments, looked forward to discussion and didn’t wear sweats, flip-flops and ball caps to class. They didn’t care about “Thirsty Thursday” at the Rum Runner bar, and they wrecked the grading curve. I imagined being the curve-wrecker, but the first class adjusted my expectations like a rear-end collision.

When I entered the room at the new Rendezvous Center, a few students were already seated. And, yes, I know that the center was built in 2007 and is not necessarily “new”, but anything at ISU that wasn’t there in 1996 is “new” to me.  I know good students are supposed to sit in front, so I dragged my dress shoes up there.

As kids, excuse me, students filed into the room, I wondered where the men were. With only one male student in the midst, I was clearly not in engineering school any more. And as I anticipated, I was the oldest. By a generation. Maybe two.

The professor started going over the syllabus and introducing words and phrases foreign to me. I considered the only thing that might make this first class more uncomfortable would be if I’d have shown up in a cow suit. I let my mind wander to that hilarity but my focus was yanked back to the present with the silence that follows a question on day one. I don’t have to answer as many questions if I sit in the front, right?

We went around the room introducing each other, and one by one, I realized that I’m the only student with a degree, let alone a Master’s. I am also the only one without an English or writing focus. I felt like the GPS led me astray and I was sitting on the wrong side of the tracks.

The entire meeting was a fascinating example of the emotion and dynamics that can surface when one is a minority or in a new setting.  I have two degrees for crying out loud and a house and a career and a turtle who loves me. I write a column. I’ve been a professional for almost two decades, but when surrounded by these young, self-identified writers and math-loathers, I stuttered. I hesitated. I stifled my voice and felt small and insecure. I felt a shred of what other students, young and old all over town, felt last week.

It’ll get better though, and we’ll find our grooves.  I suppose when my nerves settle I might just be the class curve-wrecker, but I doubt it. I look forward to the class discussions, though, and rooting for whoever the curve-wrecker proves to be.

An Evening At Villano's

Published in the Idaho State Journal on August 31, 2014

I’m on a diet. Sort of. I have visions of last fall’s jeans, but haven’t quite visualized how I’m going to get back into them. I spent an inordinate amount of money on fruits, vegetables, and protein powder this week, and followed it up with a trip to Wednesday Farmer’s Market.  I took my two six and nine year old buddies that I write about now and then. They were eager to join me and I suspect it’s because they hoped for puddles in the parking lot after the day’s rain.

I procured more vegetables through the drizzle, and the boys asked if we could go to the new Villano’s on Main Street for dinner. They love to say it, or sing it rather, with a long lingering “lan” that rolls right into the “o”. I hesitated. Diet. Jeans. Pizza. Aromas. “Sure, Boys. Let’s go to Villaaano’s.”  I’ll have a salad.

The little bistro is only two blocks from the Old Town Pavilion, so we walked. Their eyes were focused on puddles and my nose was focused on Villano’s.  I could smell the Italian sauces half way and began the internal bargaining. Surely, the boys will need me to eat their crusts. Maybe just one slice. Maybe my own small pizza. And, maybe Holt Arena is open late and I could sneak in and run stairs for an hour afterward. I ordered a small salad and stared inappropriately at everyone else’s plates. I did have to step in and finish the crusts, so my eyes were eventually diverted to our own table.

The boys’ mom was running before-school errands in peace while we dined, and she called just as we got home. She found some snazzy lunch boxes on sale. The choices were black, blue and purple. The eldest’s favorite color these days is purple. Their mom asked me if she should (A) get him the purple one, (B) tell him the choices and let him choose what would most likely be purple, or (C) get him black or blue in hopes to prevent any teasing because she fears purple might be perceived as a girl’s color.

What? Purple? A girl’s color? Since when? I’m usually up to date on gender norms because I’ve been inadvertently breaking them since I was these kids’ ages, but really? I had no idea about the potential for purple or teasing.  Nonetheless, I suggested (B).  Let him choose.

As I listed his color choices, his shout of “PURPLE!” echoed through the house and scared the dogs.

When their mom got home with the canvas lunchboxes, she might as well have been Santa himself. The purple lover grabbed his new carrier and squeezed it in glee. He then said to us both, “And ya know, people might tease me because it’s purple, but I like purple, and I will just tell them that you shouldn’t tease people for that because you can like whatever color you like.” Okay then.

This little guy is as (un)prepared as any kid for the upcoming school year and the social challenges that will come. If you’re reading this and you have kids going to school, perhaps you could talk to them about not teasing others for the color of their lunchboxes. Or their haircuts. Or their clothes. Or their church. Or their lack of one. Or for any reason at all really.

I was teased constantly as a kid for all of those and more.  I realized young that I was going to get taunted for just about anything, so I decided to freely embrace the things that brought me joy. My mom was so good at encouraging me, and I saw that same kind of encouragement in this lunchbox delivery. Not all kids are this lucky.

I wouldn’t think so much dialogue could ensue around a lunchbox, but we all talked another 10 minutes or so about social dynamics of the third grade, mold prevention, meal possibilities, and perks of this particular design. When I unzipped it and showed him the extra compartment, he squealed, “For leftovers! Like pizza from Villano’s!”

Poor kid. He’s excited and equipped to face his peers with his purple lunchbox but has no idea that as long as I’m on a “diet” there will be no leftovers after an evening at Villano’s.