Picking Up the Piccolo!

An unplayed instrument has to be one of the most unfortunate things on earth, in my opinion. Whether it be a musical instrument or unused talent, having something lay idle that could otherwise make yourself or this world a little better, even if for a moment, sheds a blanket of sadness over me. I’ve been guilty of this self-imposed crime for the last 43 years – until now.

“Can we give it back to school or to another kid who needs one?” I asked my father as I placed my flute, in its open case, on the fireplace mantel after my last lesson when I finished eighth grade.

“You’re about to go to piccolo, what’s the problem here?” he asked.

I told him that I just lost interest, simple as that. I never got the chance to tell him that the real reason I wanted to part ways with the flute was that I didn’t want to start high school as a geeky kid. He probably knew this anyway, he was a smart, instinctual person and knew me better than I knew myself. Anyhow, I thought that if I continued with the flute, I’d be that shy nerdy kid from catholic school. I’d already convinced my parents to let me go to public school because if they didn’t, I’d put the family name to shame if I was sent to an all-girl’s catholic school (the plan from the day I was born). I was already wicked shy. I didn’t want anything else to bring me down, even though I loved playing the flute. Hours of practice would pass in what seemed mere minutes. I loved playing on the front porch of our house so that the birds could hear and maybe sing along.

My dad was pretty upset with me and encouraged me to stick with it. He had visions of me applying to Julliard and becoming a world champion woodwind player. So had I, until I thought about being called out of classes or hearing my name boom between classes at Columbia High School’s intercom announcements to please report to the music room. My older brother was a two-year veteran of high school at that time. His girlfriend had been telling me now and again about what a typical day at Columbia was like – plus how to not over tweeze my eyebrows or wear too little make up. I was a scared mess after our conversations. And how was I supposed to carry a flute around between classes if it didn’t fit in my locker?   

There went the dream of sitting in an orchestra and meeting a famous musician. Gone for what seemed like good. Until a few months ago!

“You’re starting from scratch here. I love listening to classical music, but I can’t tell you what or who I’m listening to. I just know what sounds pretty and I want to play part of it on the piccolo,” I told my instructor at our first piccolo lesson.

I decided to honor my dad’s wishes and my love of music and the flute and pick up where I left off. It took me a while to find a piccolo teacher, but persistency is in my DNA like my dog with one of my shoes he’d like to shred – no giving up on something once it’s in my mind to do it.

            I’m happy to report now that I have found the most incredible, interesting, patient and honest music teacher I’ve ever had! She’s wonderful and is pushing me to be the best piccoloist I can be. Her faith in my musical abilities has also spilled over into my writing and love of local food and farmers. Stay tuned for more on that!

            Here’s to you dad! I’ve gone to piccolo! Julliard will probably not be calling me, but I am having an awesome musical adventure. Oh, and the guitar that I had was unplayed for more than a year – so it went to your grandson. He’s in his second band now, as lead guitarist and is giving me lessons. He’s out in the world shredding it like Bauer with favorite shoes!

XO, Your Shoebox.

(Nickname dad gave me circa 1975)