In third grade, someone came into the classroom to demonstrate a number of instruments in case any of us wanted to take lessons. I don’t know if the school was going to give lessons or if this was just the school district allowing the instrument rental company to make a few bucks.
So the man started demonstrative various instruments. When he got to the trumpet, something happened inside me. That’s mine, I thought. I got this soaring, pure feeling from the horn. Chills ran up my spine. As far as I’m concerned, it was the most beautiful instrument then, and it still is. Except for a period of fifteen years where I only touched it once or twice a year, I’ve been playing it ever since.
Sometime in the last decade, I added a second horn to my harem: a flugelhorn. At first, my trumpet was jealous, but now they play nice together. I use my flugelhorn more because it seems to fit with the mood of the music we are playing, but when things get high and joyful, it is my trumpet that presses against my lips.