I wanted to play the saxophone.

Toward the end of 4th grade, we brought slips home to choose an instrument if we wanted to join band.

I was told that in order to play the saxophone, I would have to start on the clarinet in 5th grade and then switch to sax in 7th.

My parents told me that if I wanted to be in band, I had to play the trombone. After all, dad already had an extra one.

I’ve told this story many times in my life, but just now it dawns on me that I didn’t use dad’s old trombone. The one in the rectangular brown case that always sat against the wall under the piano. They got me a new one in a green case that was rounded on one end.

I didn’t want to play the trombone. I wanted to play the clarinet. I wasn’t any good on the trombone. I hated practicing. But I was in band through 5th and 6th grade.

Mom hired a teacher and I had to take trombone lessons. Even during the summer.

So, the summer between 6th and 7th grade, my brother’s friend from the high school band came out to the house to give me trombone lessons. One day, I put the instrument together, but refused to put it to my lips. Eventually, hearing no music coming from the room, my mom stuck her head in the doorway and asked whether everything was ok.

The poor kid said “He won’t play anything.”

My mom said “ I guess that will be the end of the trombone lessons.”

On the first day of 7th grade, I took a note to school informing the band director that I would not be in band as originally planned.

There are many important things about this story, but the most important to me is that it was the first time I ever stood up for myself.

There was nothing that was going to make me play a single note on that horn that day. AND to this day I hate despise hate the trombone.