I’m little and I play piano and, when wanting to join the band, the director suggests percussion. Visions of me playing all the instruments in that section that utilize my piano experience dance in his head. I go along, because the one drummer is really cute.
Turns out I like it — the xylophone, the Glockenspiel, the bells, and yes, the snare drum. In school recitals for each grade, I perform three times: once on the snare drum, once on the Glockenspiel, and once on the piano. Now I’m thinking I should have taken up more instruments so the whole show could have just been ME. (kidding… mostly)
Eventually, I give up drum lessons. After marching in endless parades for a couple of years, my teacher announces the percussion ensemble will practice at 7:30. In. The. Morning.
I’m a dedicated student, taking percussion once and piano lessons twice (from two different teachers) each week. But getting up that early to bang a drum crosses a line, even at my young age. Sleep and I are BFFs and I simply won’t leave it so early in the morning, for anything.
Decades later, I decide after breaking my wrist that I’ll take up lessons for both again — to help heal my wrist and get my arm and fingers moving again after being in a cast for 6 weeks, to have teachers expecting me to have practiced meaning I’ll have to make time in my busy adult schedule to actually do so, and because now I can play any time I want, and that time will never, ever, be 7:30 a.m.
This post is part of the Blogging A to Z Challenge. My theme is Musical Memoir. Each Monday through Saturday, I explore personal memories through my love of music, inspired and coordinated by the letters of the alphabet. Join in the fun and participate in the challenge, or leave a comment and enjoy some conversation. Thanks for reading. Peace.