Make New Friends, but Keep the Old

Posted by Marcy Paulson Nov 19, 2008

Before she passed away, my Great Aunt recounted a treasury of stories from her life on the prairie frontier. There was the tale of wolves stalking her four-year-old sister (my Grandma) as she went out to meet her older brothers on their way home from school. And then there was her account of the family’s perilous night-ride through a blizzard.

Maybe not quite so thrilling, but every bit as fascinating to me were her stories involving music. My Great Aunt recounted how she and her five siblings entertained themselves through long Montana evenings with musical instruments. As they got better, they performed as a kind of VonTrap act across the state. Two of my Great Uncles played their trumpets in a comical duet involving each blowing on the instrument the other was fingering. My Great Aunt’s summer job was playing chase scene or love theme music on the piano at some of the first silent movies. By the time they’d reached high school, two of her brothers had mastered just about every instrument in the orchestra.

When I was a kid, I spouted this lineage proudly, figuring it was my genetic pass to a life of fame and talent. Since then, I’ve had to come to grips with the notion that their genes might have experienced a little watering down before they reached me. I’ve never cross-fingered a trumpet, but there is one aspect of their musical heritage I know wasn’t diluted in my DNA, and that’s their enjoyment in getting to know a new instrument.

The thing is, that very enjoyment has begun to bother me the older I get. After all, my time now, is limited to say the least. Theoretically, even if I completely neglect all responsibilities, loved ones, meals and sleep I could be perfectly busy for the next decade mastering the instruments already under my roof.

The practical side of my brain has been nagging at me. It says, “Okay, you’ve sown your oats, now pick the instrument you like best and focus on it.”

But then there’s that spontaneous side of my brain I like so much better, though admittedly I’m glad it’s never quite enjoyed free rein. That side wants to know, “Why? Why can’t you learn a new instrument if it’s something you enjoy? It stretches your mind, introduces you to new people…”

The rational side sneers back, “Because instruments aren’t like dirty socks you change out on a whim. An instrument demands time, dedication, and a commitment.”

My spontaneous side is finding it more difficult to refute this last argument. Lately, I think it’s tried the ploy of pretending it didn’t hear it at all. It doesn’t really matter anyway, because thanks to that quirky musical gene from my ancestors, the practical side never holds out for long.

I never really know when that spontaneous gene will kick in, but all of a sudden, there it is, without any rhyme or reason, an unshakable conviction that I need to try—well, the latest inspiration has been—the cornet.

I haven’t taken on brass before. Frankly, the brashness of trumpets, trombones, and tubas has always been a little overwhelming. But, for some reason, the cornet suddenly strikes me as the perfect instrument for Christmas carols. I can’t get its conical bore and rich dark tone out of my mind. Even its name, cornet, suddenly seems so refined and full of tradition.

Now, In self-analyzing this personality quirk, I’m at least removed enough to know how absurd it will seem to just about 99% of anyone who’ll read about it. But, for the 1% who understand the single mindedness that simply takes over, I’m trying to portray it in a way that sounds at least semi-rational.

When I start the research, there’s no turning back. If I had a million dollars to feed this benign addiction, research wouldn’t be so crucial, but unfortunately, my budget isn’t bottomless. The problem is, I absolutely balk at buying a low-grade instrument. This isn’t purely musical snobbery. Student instruments are harder to play, don’t sound as nice, and--worst of all—are mass-produced.

Maybe the mass-produced part is a little snobby, but I like to think of it more as musical idealism. Basically, for an instrument to draw me in, I like it to have some random uniqueness. I don’t know, somehow that little spark of individuality transforms the thing from a bunch of metal or wooden parts, into a whole that’s something else entirely.

So, to find an instrument that fits the bill, I scour the web and classifieds in earnest. My requirements are basically these, an instrument with above average tone, working mechanical condition, it’s own unique story, and--of course—it has to be fairly cheap. These aren’t impossible to find, but if you attempt it, be prepared for hours of research.

My cornet’s rumbling down the road on a UPS truck and should be here tomorrow. It’s an Olds Special which looks, in polite terms, vintage. The silvery lacquer is stripping away to reveal a brass body and copper bell, but to my knowledge, everything works and the horn sounds great. I like the copper bell particularly, because my research tells me it bodes for greater projection and darker tone. A bonus that didn’t cost me any more than my $100 is the fact that in some brass circles, I’m finding it’s apparently sort of cool to have a naturally worn looking horn. So, for not much money, I have my coveted cornet and am cool to boot--or at least, I will be once I can get a note out of the thing.

My Great Aunt once told how a neighbor several farms away learned of her love for trying new musical instruments. This neighbor had a harp, which they generously offered to loan her for the summer. My Great Aunt recounts in terms I can understand so vividly how excited she was to see that neighbor’s wagon pull up to her family’s homestead. Strapped securely in the back of the buggy was the massive instrument with its ornate carvings and dozens of sparkling strings. As summer passed, she threw herself into learning all the harp’s intricacies. Before the first nip of autumn, she’d hurtled those awkward first practice sessions and her fingers danced across the strings in fluid melodies. Of course, she was more than a little disappointed when the neighbor’s wagon returned that fall to collect the treasured instrument, which I’m sure by then she looked at as something of a friend.

Nearly a century later, I’m remembering her as I peek out the window each time a truck goes past. Believe it or not, I’m grateful for that musical heritage. When it strikes, that single minded drive can be difficult to explain, but learning a new instrument opens my mind and fingers to a puzzle that’s simultaneously fun and frustrating, familiar and foreign.