Making high school band still clear as a bell

Our ancient art teacher, famous for detailed paintings of riverboats sliding down the Monongahela, waggled his finger at us. "These are the best years of your life. You need to enjoy them."

I hoped not.

So far, freshman year was a disappointment. Over the summer of 1957, I morphed from a buoyant butterfly into a lumpy, bumpy, flat-haired caterpillar.

In September, I tried out variously for cheerleader, a tap dance act in the annual variety show and mixed chorus. I made glee club but then, everybody did.

As the damp-cold Pittsburgh winter slushed toward spring, I felt more and more undefined.

"I'm going to try out for next year's band," my friend Cheryl said. "The bells."

I didn't know what these were and after five years of piano and one wretched year on flute, I knew I was not musically inclined.

Nevertheless, the troupe traveled to all the football games and anchored the chorus in the spring concert so I said, "Maybe I will, too."

"There're only two openings," she said. "And, Marilyn Limbert told me she's going to change from clarinet to bells."

I frowned. "How unfair."

After translating Page 9 of The Conquest of Gaul in fourth-period Latin, I formulated the perfect plan.

At dinner I announced, "I'm going to try out for the bells."

"I always loved the bells," Mother said. "You can hear them over everything else."

Dad, a former track and swim team guy, looked blank.

"I wish I could practice ahead of time. Maybe if we rent or buy a set, I can get in."

Mother's eyes narrowed; Grandma's lips disappeared.

Dad examined the skewer in the city chicken and offered his standard, "We'll see."

On Saturday, Mother and I caught the streetcar downtown and, like two triumphant Centurions, marched down Fifth to Liberty and invaded Volkwein's Music Store. We left bearing a C-scale glockenspiel, the smallest and cheapest bell lyre in stock.

I practiced all Sunday afternoon with some old sheet music. "How easy," I thought. Arranged like piano keys, the names of every note were inscribed on each bar.

The next morning, I lugged my vinyl-cased bells to school and sped to the band room.

"I brought my own," I said with the authority of an accomplished musician and the arrogance of Julius Caesar.

Mr. Rush, the director, looked them over. "We use the B-flats for coronet — trumpet — music."

Agony.

Cheryl and Marilyn took turns on the school instruments, larger than mine. Both competent.

I plonked out To a Violet, my second-grade recital waltz.

"Try this." Mr. Rush handed me On Wisconsin. Someone, years before, adapted words to this tune for our school's fight song, Mighty Bulldogs, the very same number played during my unsuccessful tryout for cheerleader.

I limped through it.

When I came home, Mother gave me a hug. "I know you did good. You're going to get in."

Dad remained silent. Hmm. I guessed he forgot.

I didn't dare share my shame about buying the wrong kind of bells.

Several days passed.

Posted on the bulletin board was the list of new band members.

For Bells: Cheryl, Marilyn and Donna.

Me.

I was so proud. My confidence zoomed.

Mr. Rush found another

B-flat set and that off-key buy grew dusty in the bottom of my closet.

Fitted for a maroon and gray uniform and tasseled Roman helmet, I learned to march in a straight line, crooned "Shu doot dooby doo" on the band bus, played for concerts and graduations and strutted in Memorial Day parades.

Life was good; the Gauls, defeated. Rome was mine. I came, I saw, I conquered. Veni, vidi, vici.

Mid March, years later, now worldly, self-assured, I boast, once again, to family crowded in my Tampa kitchen, of my prowess on the bell lyre.

"Remember how bad you wanted to be in the band?" Dad asks.

"Yeah, made you guys buy that set of bells."

I smirk. My brilliant coup d'etat.

He turns to my daughter. "You know I called up my pal, the school superintendent, and told him, 'Donna wants to be in the band.' "

"What?" I choke, incredulous.

He grins and his chest puffs out.

My cheeks flame. Tears well.

I feel the painful puncture of my teenage soul.

Et tu Brute.

Deflated, as if no longer breathing.

I come to bury Caesar, not to praise "her."

I straighten, feel ridiculous and regard Dad over the top of my designer glasses.

"What gall," I say.

Donna E. Glausser is a Tampa writer.