I need to prep for my presentation tonight for class, but while the main computer is restarting, I will sit and type out my 15 minutes. The kids argue back and forth upstairs, yelling from room to room while they get dressed. “Do you have your PANTS on?!!!” Kai yells, always with the endless questioning. “NO!” Elizabeth responds, annoyed. Now, both are howling, “No” in different octaves, playing with their voices as instruments. I am wondering, “When is fall break over?”
James Galway and The Chieftains are playing on my kitchen stereo. I went to see James Galway and his golden flute in 1994 at The University of Illinois. I bought myself a front row ticket. I believe this was my first performance I attended by myself. It turned into a habit I continued throughout my college careers. I attended many wonderful shows completely by myself and felt not one ounce of sadness or isolation about that fact. If anything, I still consider it a badge of pride that I did what I wanted regardless of company.
Having played for a few years, James Galway served as my inspiration. I listened to his version of Flight of the Bumblebee over and over. When my flute teacher, Mr. Porth, as me what piece I would like to learn, I immediately knew that was the one. I was delighted and somewhat disappointed to learn that the song, an impressive rush of notes rising and falling with rapid speed, was essentially just a series of scales. This meant it was much easier than I thought to master. It never failed to impress my fellow band members though. Quickly memorizing the piece, I zipped through it upon request and then basked in the admiration that undoubtedly followed.
Marching band forced me to quit playing the flute. In our high school, one did not separate the marching band from the regular band. If you wanted to be in band, you HAD to participate in the marching band as well. Marching band practiced at the same time as the fall sports. Tennis was a fall sport. I was dying to try out for the team. Reluctantly, my parents allowed me to drop the flute and pick up a racket instead. While I loved playing tennis, my guess is that I would’ve had more success with the flute than with just about any sport.
Sitting in the front row, watching Mr. Galway caress his flute, I wondered if I could pick it up again. Yet, by then, college stretched out before me. The other day, I pulled my flute out and played a few notes for my kids. Both of them watched wide-eyed. They took their turns, puckering up their soft pink lips to force weak streams of air through the small hole.
Once again taking it apart, I remembered my teacher, Mr. Porth. I took classes from around age 12 until 15. What I liked the most about my private lessons were the conversations we had. Mr. Porth stood at about 5’ 10” tall. He sported more of a honey pot than a beer belly. He wore glasses that were often slightly smeared and his beard and mustache were mostly white. We spent most of the class time talking. I asked me about performing in the Chicago Symphony. He explained how all the musicians perform behind a screen, to ensure that only their musical ability was being judged. I looked forward to our conversations more than the actual playing. I cried the day I told him that I was stopping lessons to play tennis. I wish I had seen him perform just once, to hear him not just play alone in that tiny room, but in tandem with the entire orchestra of players that were chosen by skill alone.
Time