The sounds came wafting over the tops of the cedars that have ringed the yard forever. My backyard connects to five others. While I know who has dogs, who has kids and who has leaf-blowers, it’s an exercise directed by sound — or noise in the case of the leaf-blowers.
I wouldn’t recognize most of my backyard neighbours if we passed in the street, though we all know a lot about the aural minutiae of each others’ lives. What caught my ear a couple of weeks ago were not the yips and yaps of puppies nor the constant whine of yard tools. This was a sound I’d heard before; this was a noise so distinct, so memorable, in one note I was transported back nearly 20 years in time.
This was the sound of someone playing the trombone. No. This was the sound of someone learning to play the trombone.
I am deeply envious of musically talented people. I imagine they have a freedom of creativity and expression that mere mortals can only dream about. I fumble adequately with words but setting them to music I’ve created would be like lighting them on fire.
My mom made me take piano lessons when I was seven. She thought her natural ability would filter through to another generation; it did not. My poor piano teacher, a 14-year-old boy who was a family friend, waited for me every Tuesday to show up after school and hear me lie about how much I’d practised.
I lasted the school year, but even my father was getting sick of hearing me slog through “Swans on the Lake” as if they were tr.
