A Story About Oboes…& Betting On Yourself

Project 365, Day 55

Good Wednesday, friends. Thank you for being there yesterday, popping into the comments, giving me (us) some great ideas for how to claw my way out of a funk. Luckily, I woke up feeling a bit better. Not 100%, because like reader Emma said, there’s something so heavy about those 500,000 lives lost in this country this past year to Covid-related illness…it’s staggering. I have the absolute blessing of being able to shut my mind off to that if I need to, think of something else when it’s too hard. My family and loved ones have come through this unscathed, health-wise, at least. Even writing that ignites my inner superstitions…did I just jinx myself or them?

But my personal emotional funk is a bit less funky today, thankfully. Something that didn’t change overnight, however, was my mental writing block. It’s not that I don’t have anything to say…I have a ton of ideas, I just don’t have the vigor to get them to where I want them to be. But I find that the absolute most random things I write turn out to be some of my favorites. So today, instead of relying on a draft I’ve started, I’m going to do something a little different.

I’m sitting here on my laptop, in my dining room. It’s just before 9 pm on Tuesday. This past week, while I write, Charles has been spending his evenings toying around with his photography. As he drags his equipment out into the living room, I blurt out: “Give me a word…anything out of thin air…now!”

“Oboe,” he says, unfazed. He’s used to my very random thoughts that I regularly process out loud. This isn’t a thought though. It’s a prompt. I need something to get the gears churning. Surely, I can make something of any word that floats out from his lips into my brain.

“Oboe?!?” I retort. “Did you just say that because I played the oboe?” I was convinced he was placating me in some way. Softballing my request.

“No. I was listening to something, and they were talking about the oboe. I was going to share it with you because I know you played the oboe, but I knew you wouldn’t want to listen to it.”

He’s not wrong. Charles is always listening to something. Or watching something. Something he always wants to share with me, to bring some enrichment into my life, or teach me something. I have a very bad habit of brushing him off, not giving what he brings to me with love and excitement the attention it deserves.

But, because he gave me the prompt “oboe,” I shall make something with that word.

I come from a long line of musicians. And artists. There were a dentist and a doctor or two in my family, but otherwise, so many creatives. Even my father, who studied biology and chemistry and worked a long career in pharmaceuticals, played the accordion back when, you know, people played the accordion.

While some students deliberated over chorus, or piano, or theater, or art, I made a bee-line for the music room.

When I entered the sixth grade, I didn’t need to hem and haw over my elective. While some students deliberated over chorus, or piano, or theater, or art, I made a bee-line for the music room. I was going to play the flute, I had decided. My brother, six years my senior, was a trumpet whiz. He was really good. At least, that’s what I remember. I was his baby sister, I admired him…he could have played the whistle and I’m sure I would have thought he was great at it.

My older sister—I say that as if I have a younger sister, I don’t—she played the French horn. I’m not sure it was something she ever really loved, to be honest. Maybe she felt the weight of my musical family on her shoulders, almost as if she didn’t have a choice in the matter. She did. Everyone in my family always had a choice. But anyhow, she played the French horn.

I knew the brass section wasn’t for me. I liked the softness of woodwinds, all the different keys. I couldn’t understand how someone could create so many sounds and pitches with just a few buttons depending on how they positioned their mouth. How?!? I’m a button girl, and I had zeroed in on the flute.

The shiny chrome of a flute was so pretty to me. The sound was even prettier. It sounded like how fluttering wings look in a cartoon. Happy. Jovial. Light as air. I remember watching the flutists playing in the wind ensemble at my brother or sister’s concerts. They swayed, almost danced when they played. I wanted to dance when I played.

During the first week or so of my middle school years, the band had an “open house” type night. You could come in accompanied by a parent, try out some of the instruments, hold them in your hands, see what felt comfortable. At the end of the night, you’d write down your top choice for what you wanted to play, and then a few backups. I don’t have to tell you what I put as my #1. The band director would go through all the forms and decide who played what. Smart, as I’d imagine otherwise, the band would be full of half flutists, a quarter trumpet players and maybe a tuba or two. An orchestra is about balance, and that, my friends, is not balanced.

I knew the band director well enough at that point. Again, my two older siblings had been through the band program. Well, actually, just my sister had been taught by the wonderful Mr. Nichols. My brother had attended a different middle school. I’m likely wrong in how I’m remembering the next part of this story, but I recall being told that night that I probably wouldn’t get picked to play the flute. There were too many people before me who had picked it. But Mr. Nichols, who would turn out to be one of the greatest teachers I ever had, suggested I think about playing the oboe. Honestly, I’m not even sure I knew what an oboe was. If it wasn’t a flute, a trumpet, a clarinet or a drum, I was clueless.

I jotted down “oboe” as one of my backups, secretly hoping it wouldn’t come to that.

“There are only a few oboe players in each orchestra. You could really stand out. You could even get a scholarship to college if you were really good,” I remember someone telling me…possibly Mr. Nichols? Who else would have said that to me? I wasn’t convinced. While I was absolutely an overachiever at the age of 11, and the idea of a college scholarship for a talent put stars in my eyes, I didn’t immediately abandon my flute dreams. My dad, who came along with me to that band open house, told me to think about it. I jotted down “oboe” as one of my backups, secretly hoping it wouldn’t come to that.

After the open house, my dad and I made a stop at the supermarket. For anyone who is from the south, saying that the store was Publix will mean something to you. (Side note unrelated to this story: Boy do I miss Publix. It’s the greatest supermarket chain that ever was.) My dad went to Publix every single night. I’d always poke fun at him that he’d make a list, but it was always the same things on the list: milk, bread, juice, deli ham or turkey, cheese. Occasionally, maybe we’d need toothpaste or soap or sponges. I loved going to the grocery store with my dad. It was not difficult to ever convince him to leave with a carton of chocolate ice cream. We’d always go home, scoop some into coffee mugs, and he’d pour a little milk over his and then mine so that it got all icy and milky and amazing. I still do that occasionally, and my eyes well up with fondness and nostalgia.

But this story is not about the grocery store or ice cream or even my dad. I could write a novel about my dad. Most daddy’s girls could. Back to oboes.

It’s much easier to stand out in a group of two than a group of 10.

I have a very vivid memory of standing in the deli meat line with my dad that night. The bright lights of Publix overhead, the soft music playing in the background. I may be editorializing my memory, but I even recall feeling the cold, wet glass of the deli case on my hands…I’d regularly lean against it, wishing my dad would splurge on the Boar’s Head, knowing full well he was getting Publix-brand turkey. A girl could dream. But that night, my mind was preoccupied. Could the decision I made about what instrument I played really affect my future? I mean, everyone played the flute, right? But there were only ever two or so oboe players in a wind ensemble. If you’ve learned anything about me while reading my blog the last few weeks, you probably already know how appealing it was to me to be “special.” It’s much easier to stand out in a group of two than a group of 10.

My dad has always been someone I openly and freely bounce ideas around with. He’s my guiding star, my go-to optimist. He liked the idea of me trying something different, but didn’t force my hand in any way. The choice was mine. “I think I’m going to go tell Mr. Nichols tomorrow morning that I want to pick the oboe,” I said, daring to try something unknown. A bold move for an 11-year-old, surely.

And that’s exactly what I did. I became an oboe player. First chair oboe, to be exact, all through middle school. I was good. I practiced hard. I took private lessons. I had a scholarship to get, after all.

The oboe is an interesting instrument. It can be absolutely horrendous sounding when played even moderately poorly, but it can be so beautiful, so fluttery, so light when played well. I would eventually go on to play the tenor saxophone later in high school, an instrument I picked up in the jazz band in the 8th grade, and continued for a few years. By senior year, I had stepped away from the band altogether. I regret that, to be honest.

I’m nearly impossible to motivate when the passion is gone.

I remember my band director at the time pulling me aside and asking me why I was quitting. He asked if it was because of money; if it was, he’d cover whatever costs to keep me in, but it wasn’t that. I knew I wasn’t good enough at either the oboe or the saxophone to get a scholarship. I knew this because I knew someone who was good enough, and I wasn’t as good as she was. Maybe I could have been if I had the wood oboe from France like she did, not the plastic oboe from Guitar Center, or maybe if my private lessons never stopped, or I was still practicing at home. But the passion was gone. I’m nearly impossible to motivate when the passion is gone.

But those years playing that oboe, in the band, being taught by the greatest instructor, sitting next to the best friends that ever lived, giggling on the bus on the way to competitions and concerts, feeling like I was working toward something, they molded me. They ignited my creativity that led me to the next thing, then the next thing, then the next thing. And here I am today. 25 years later. 25 years since I took a chance on myself to step away from the crowd that felt comfortable to try something unknown. It wasn’t a bad choice then, and it wouldn’t be a bad choice now. I’ve said this before, but always, ALWAYS bet on yourself.

See you tomorrow, friends.

Oh, and p.s., if you made it all the way down here and somehow still have the will to read MORE of my writing, you can head over to Style by Emily Henderson where I’m chatting about my bedroom design and presenting a bit of a conundrum I’m dealing with. See you there (maybe)!