Free Lessons

As a prospective home buyer, there were many things that impressed me about Wilmette---the excellent school system, Gilson Park and the beach, and its proximity to downtown Chicago. But the one perk that got me to sign on the dotted line was the free music lessons.

Our realtor told us that in District 39, all children could receive free instruction on the musical instrument of their choice when they began fifth grade.  With the undue optimism so often found in young mothers, I imagined my son could be the next Yitzhak Perlman.  I dreamt of play dates with ten-year old prodigies playing Mozart in our living room.

I encouraged my son's musical development.  We listened to all kinds of music and went to dozens of concerts.  My son was a good natured and easygoing boy, and although he didn't love these events, he never refused to attend.  He was much more interested in being the Kickball King of Romona Elementary School, but I was not deterred.

When our son began fifth grade, he came home with the flyer in his backpack announcing the musical instrument program.  I was very excited.  My son, not so much.  The children were invited to sample the instruments before choosing one.  Parents were invited to attend but it wasn't required.  I couldn't wait to go, but at the last minute I had to attend a funeral and miss it.

The night before we talked about the difference between the band and the orchestra.  My son felt he was more of a "band guy."  He was interested in the trumpet, and I thought he had the perfect lips for it. Louie Armstrong lips.

At 3:30 I could hardly wait to hear the news.  When I saw my boy skipping up the driveway, I opened the front door.

"What did you pick?" I asked before I even said hello.

My son looked confused for a second and then asked, "You mean which instrument?"

I nodded.

"The tuba!" he exclaimed.

A thousand thoughts ran through my head and I am proud to say that I didn't utter any of them.

"The tuba," I repeated.  "Huh.  What made you pick the tuba?"

"Miss D thought I'd be great at it!" he replied.  "What's for snack?"

The one benefit of the tuba was that the school provided one for our home use and we didn't need to pay for a rental.  The only thing I needed to purchase was a Tuba I instruction book and a mouthpiece.

I called Miss D to arrange to pick up the tuba during her free period.  I could see the school from my house, and since the parking lot was packed and the weather was good, I decided to walk over.  I knew I'd be carrying home a tuba, but I imagined myself resembling a member of a marching band as I made the short walk across the play field.

Miss D seemed a little concerned when I told her I'd walked over, and when I saw the tuba I knew why.  The instrument came with its own chair.  I had to walk home with a tuba and a piece of furniture.

I asked Miss D how she chose my son for the tuba.  "Well," she said, "we always look for a bigger boy. . ." her voice trailed off, "and we never choose a child who lives in an apartment building."

I later discovered that the children whose mothers had attended Instrument Day had somehow been better suited to the clarinet, oboe or violin.  Everyone in the flute section had an older sibling whose mother knew which instrument fit into a backpack and would not be left on the bus.  The mothers who had missed instrument day received letters about the tuba, bass, or heaven forbid, the drums.

Miss D helped me get the tuba/chair to the door, but then I was on my own.  I tried to carry the tuba in one arm and the chair in the other, but halfway across the field I abandoned the tuba, planning to come back for it.  I thought of leaving the chair but was afraid someone might steal it.  I had no such illusions about the tuba.

Practicing began.  The tuba score was a series of short blasts, never a melody or anything recognizable.  After the initial excitement of getting the tuba to make a sound, my son got bored with its limited range.  I asked the teacher if he could learn a tune, and she taught him the Jewish folk song Hava Nagillah.  I would have never pegged it as a tuba standard.  Who knew?

By February my son was losing interest in the tuba and was hardly practicing.  He wanted to quit.  I begged him to stick with it until the spring concert, but then his mouthpiece disappeared, and I couldn't justify investing in a new one.  I was prepared to admit defeat.

I called Miss D to tell her my son's tuba career was over.

"Oh no!" she said, "please, let's keep trying!"  Her voice started to quiver, "He's my best one!"  I understood then that being a middle school music teacher was one of the more difficult ways to make a living.

Years later, I found the tuba mouthpiece in the back of a bathroom drawer, inside an old retainer case.  When I showed it to my son, he did not seem surprised.