Other than teaching myself guitar over the last ten years or so, I've been away from music. Music was once a huge part of my life, and the thing I most looked forward to on a daily basis. Gradually, and for a number of reasons, it became less and less so over the years. I seem to require some degree of external stimulus to stay engaged with something, and while I enjoy playing guitar and reached some modestly useful degree of musicianship with it, I've never really felt the way I used to when I played trumpet.
This is particularly true when I consider that I also miss playing as part of an ensemble. True, I could form or join some sort of a band, but the voice of the guitar typically stands alone or is at most part of a two person unit in a band. I miss blending with two, three, six, twelve, or three-hundred trumpets. Yes, I was part of a three-hundred trumpet group that performed at halftime of a football game at the University of Kentucky during their "Trumpet Day", 31 years ago. (Coincidentally, that was the last time Kentucky beat Florida in football.) It was interesting, aurally abusive, and kind of fun, but I think my ears are still ringing. But I digress...
A few months ago, I received a phone call from my sister to tell me that my father had had a serious fall in his apartment and was under careful observation in the hospital. A few days after that, I discovered that he'd fallen due to extreme weakness. This weakness was caused by an extremely low red blood cell count due to his diagnosis: aggressive leukemia. My dad had always been the picture of absolute health. He was an amazing athlete and played just about every sport at a high level, so this was a complete shock. This was a man that had taught himself how to golf at the age of 30, and since that time had had no less than eight, yes eight, hole-in-ones. That is no lie -- he had certificates from each, and could give you the precise details about each and every one like they'd been frozen in his mind. He had more trophies from his exploits than most people have hairs. But now he was 77 and he was dying.
I lived about 500 miles away from where he was and immediately took a leave of absence from my job to go spend some time with him. We didn't have long - about a month, I'd guess. I remember chatting with him one night when I asked him, "Hey, when was the last time you played golf?"
He said it had been about two years. Golf had been his trumpet -- his love outside of other people, of course. I thought about that conversation frequently in the nights when we were waiting for him to pass. I thought about how sad it was that he'd gone that long without doing his favorite thing.
Being back in that area meant that I was able to get in touch with some old friends I had not spoken with in decades. I had dinner one night with four friends, including one who was one of my best friends from band. She played mellophone and french horn and she'd kept playing as a hobby after high school. Her kids played as well now. She showed me some pics on her phone of some of the music we used to play "back in the day". "What ever happened to your trumpet?" she asked.
I explained that it was sitting in a closet with red rot. I also suddenly felt guilty and disappointed with myself. It was at that moment, and probably due to those circumstances, that something inside me was rekindled. When my dad finally passed away, I decided to honor him by getting back to the instrument that I loved as much as he loved golf. It was time to become a student again.
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