BEING IN THE BAND

Being in the high school band back in the late fifties was a fifty-fifty situation for me. Though I can’t remember what else I’d have done at that hour, maybe study hall, the plus side was that I got to spend several hours a week in band or orchestra practice. I loved being with music. From when I was little, sitting in front of our big console radio and listening to a concert or opera, I wanted to play the one that made that great sound at the start of the opera “Der Rosenkavalier”.  Turned out it was the French horn. 

I’d had piano lessons, but the first time I could choose what I liked was as a freshman in high school.  Naturally I picked the French horn.  Now I see that most French horns are carried in nice rectangular cases.  Years ago the case was the shape of the horn.  Though eventually we could leave our instruments at school, at first I had to schlep that unbalanced lump on my bicycle.   It was always a disaster because the case handle didn’t fit over my handle bars.  I tried tying it on, but it just swung around and banged me on my knee. That ride to school, along with forgetting my locker combination, is still part of an occasional crazy dream.  I should have picked the piccolo.

As an aside, I must say I enjoyed a part of the ride if that day I came upon a wonderful man who, more days than not, whatever the weather, would be sitting out on his front porch or puttering in his garden.  He’d hold the horn to give me a little break, and we’d have a little chat, and then I’d continue on.  This happened for only my freshman year because the new high school was just about ready and my route changed. Many years later it happened that the man was one of the directors of the bank at which I’d come to work.  He was pleased to see I’d done so well, and I was just delighted to see him again. Our little chats continued on from there.

I loved playing the French horn and singing in the chorus too.  We usually did quite well in New York State School Music Association’s adjudications, and I even got an individual medal the one time I entered.  The negative in all of this was that we had to march.  Marching in a parade wasn’t too too bad - I had marched for years as a Girl Scout – and we had a good time marching through the town and nodding to folks we knew, even though on Memorial Day that heavy wool band uniform was hot enough to melt your undies.

The kicker was the second year at the new high school when they decided we should have a marching band for the football games.  Problem was that many of the better players on the team were also the better players in the band. As a marching band we were few in numbers, puny and pathetic.  We drilled and drilled, but the leader couldn’t make much of us.  Eventually they dropped the whole idea - but not before we made it into the yearbook! I was searching for a nice picture of a French horn and I thought to google the high school marching band. Lo and behold! a picture from the 1959 North Shore High School yearbook. I'm in there somewhere.  Who'da believed it! 

The majorettes almost outnumbered the band!

When I look up my old high school on line I see today that they’ve got only what they call the “Concert Band”. Those kids are so lucky.  But lucky or not, times like those were what made for some really great memories, and another essay for my blog.


P.S. Enjoy this Memorial Day weekend. I, for one, will be glad not to be marching in a hot uniform!