One winter break when I was about a sophomore in college – that would be January, 1982 I think – I got it into my head that welding a small metal support to my horn’s hand guard would improve my playing. Had I ever learned to plug in a soldering iron I probably could have done it myself, but at the time the famous Schilke Music Products of Chicago was the only shop in the country I felt was qualified to perform the surgery. As it happened, I was planning to spend a week of my holiday alone with the Arenzville grandparents. Was my family overseas? I can’t remember. In any case, my relative proximity to the Windy City suggested I ought to put my plan into action.
I shudder to think how much it cost, but Grandpa bought me a one-day round-trip ticket to Midway, leaving a few hours between flights to squeeze in the necessary horn work. Well before dawn the two of us got up and dressed, loaded the horn into the Mustang, then headed to Springfield leaving Grandma to fend for herself.
It being January, the Mustang’s top was up and the windows tightly closed – presenting our nonsmoking passenger (me) with an unexpected hardship. To keep himself alert, Grandpa puffed a series of cigars while I struggled from one breath to the next, discreetly filtering each through the fabric of my cotton shirt collar. I desperately wanted to crack my window, but a combination of filial deference and youthful machismo kept me quiet and still – if barely alive – all the way to Springfield.
We drove on wordlessly. As we neared the airport, Grandpa broke the silence with an interesting question. “In your music coursework, do you ever have to identify a piece by ear?” “Well, yes,” I replied. Aural identification is an important component of a music literature class, and one, if I say so myself, I’m pretty good at.
“What do you make of this?” he asked, flipping on the radio.
I listened. I remember an orchestra was playing – a large work, romantic era, probably late romantic, most likely a symphony. As I was pretty familiar with a number of romantic orchestral works, I began to get a little excited about displaying some erudition. “Well, let’s see,” I said keenly, “it’s clearly late nineteenth-century symphonic… European, probably…” I added helpfully, hoping he didn’t know where all important music of a certain age comes from. Then, getting a telltale whiff of something vaguely eastern in the melody, I triumphantly blurted out my guess – Dvorak!! As guesses go this one seemed pretty sound, especially since, as I shrewdly calculated, we would be well inside the terminal before any announcer could discredit it.
I smiled. Grandpa drove into the short-term parking, nodding approvingly in tempo. He finished up his last cigar and listened to the music unwind for a few more moments. “Nope,” he said suddenly. “Mendelssohn. Italian Symphony.” (1833)
And that was the end of that.
The trip was fairly uneventful. I sat next to Henny Youngman and his violin on the plane. He seemed surprised and a little disappointed that I had never heard of him. In Chicago, I dropped the horn off at Schilke and not having anything better to do wandered up and down North Avenue for 7 hours. Despite the waiter’s raised eyebrows and a $13 price tag, I ordered a whole Chicago-style pizza for lunch. I covered the uneaten two thirds of it with paper napkins to help conceal my embarrassment when I left.
The new Schilke support bracket didn’t turn me into a virtuoso, and after about three months it fell off.
Happy thought of the week. When my twin cousins were about Gabe’s age (and I was therefore in my mid-twenties), the three of us were horsing around in Grandpa Lane’s hayloft, climbing and swinging on the ancient ropes that dangled from the ceiling. One of these broke and Jarrod plummeted about 10 feet to the floor, then, amazingly, right through the 4’ x 8’ hole where the ladder came up, and down another 10 feet to the ground. When we heard nothing more than the dull “crunch” of his landing, Travis and I looked at each other with dismay. I remember Travis’s wide eyes clearly saying “Oh, man, my brother is really hurt!” as he no doubt remembers mine saying “Uh oh. Aunt Nancy is gonna kill me.” The happy thought this week is that neither of these turned out to be true. Jarrod landed on his feet unscathed and couldn’t understand what all the fuss was about. Whew!
Another happy thought. All the friendly neighbors that live near Grandma Lane and help her out clearing snowy walkways, running errands, etc. Hopefully we’ll all be someone’s friendly neighbor someday.
Have a nice week.
Mikal