My Hobbit Story
Teach your children well and the lives they save might be those of their fellow percussionists.
Before I go much further, I need to warn you there will be the implied use of an impolite word. I thought about various ways to approach this, and settled on overuse of asterisks. Apologies to the linguistic purists out there.
It should come to a surprise to no one that I was a band nerd. Being completely talentless and not cute enough to join the color guard secured me a place in the percussion section. When I wasn't missing my cues as the token cymbal player, I was taking in the seemingly disconnected culture of band life. It was fascinating. It was fun. It got me a good seat at the football games in exchange for twelve minutes of crashing my cymbals off-tempo to It's Raining Men , Carmina Burana, and The Rainbow Connection.
There were the instances when my vocabulary was accidentally expanded.
The director, Dr. Webb, used to make the individual sections stand at parade rest until we passed inspection. He loathed the drum line and would pass that task to his fussy, officious, son, Baby Webb, an undergraduate music education major at MTSU whenever he could. I'd heard stories about Baby Webb, and decided to keep my own counsel abut him until the first time he demanded I strap on my cymbals and proceeded to sadistically twist my wrists around on the pretense of inspecting my gloves and instrument. So maybe I wasn't as innocent as I've liked to remember about that first inspection before my debut under the Friday night lights.
As Baby Webb moved down the lines, one of the drummers called him a name. I had not heard it used but thought I remembered seeing it mentioned on one of my friend's five foot bookshelf lists. My next thought was I really should trh to find that book when I went to the library that weekend. It was surprising to see Baby Webb's face flush bright red as he quickstepped away from us and straight to Daddy Webb. He must really hate Hobbits.
A minute later, Dr. Webb marched over and demanded to know what was said to Baby Webb and by whom. Our response was to become Spartacus. Okay almost all of us. That was when I, in full form of Our Maiden of Cluelessness, piped up.
"Dr. Webb? Someone called him D***o. I'm sure we weren't aware of how upset he would get by that. We will avoid science fiction references in the future." After which I nodded brightly.
2025 Jas here. Of course I had no idea what I was talking about. This was me just trying to help. Sort of.
Dr. Webb took in a sharp lungful of air and stared at me. My fellow members of The Mighty Marching Band of Blue, all 63 of us, froze.
He recovered and asked, "What? What was that name?"
"D***o," I chirped back.
This put Dr. Webb in a tough position. He could use this as an excuse to turn the eleven in our section into a razed, greasy spot of melted instruments, exploded liter bottles of spiked cola, and my one virginal bottle of Sprite rolling to the side with its label partially burned off. That meant he would also have to explain to my parents how my sheltered raising in Lubbock, Texas was ruined by three weeks of high school in Nashville.
Or he could let it go and I and my parents would be none the wiser.*
In retrospect, he made the smart choice to turn sharply and march away from us. I don't think he even looked at us for the next week. As for me, I enjoyed some drumline loyalty cred for unintentional bravery. The next day, I went to the Thompson Lane Branch of the Nashville Public Library (best branch and librarians EVAR!) and checked out The LOTR Trilogy, The Hobbit, David Gerrold's The Man Who Folded Himself, and Ray Bradbury's October Country. To this day, I keep copies of them on my shelves and recommend them. Dropping D-Bombs to your elders? (Even though I am now an elder myself.) Not so much.
*Later that night, someone from the color guard told me what it meant.
Before I go much further, I need to warn you there will be the implied use of an impolite word. I thought about various ways to approach this, and settled on overuse of asterisks. Apologies to the linguistic purists out there.
It should come to a surprise to no one that I was a band nerd. Being completely talentless and not cute enough to join the color guard secured me a place in the percussion section. When I wasn't missing my cues as the token cymbal player, I was taking in the seemingly disconnected culture of band life. It was fascinating. It was fun. It got me a good seat at the football games in exchange for twelve minutes of crashing my cymbals off-tempo to It's Raining Men , Carmina Burana, and The Rainbow Connection.
There were the instances when my vocabulary was accidentally expanded.
The director, Dr. Webb, used to make the individual sections stand at parade rest until we passed inspection. He loathed the drum line and would pass that task to his fussy, officious, son, Baby Webb, an undergraduate music education major at MTSU whenever he could. I'd heard stories about Baby Webb, and decided to keep my own counsel abut him until the first time he demanded I strap on my cymbals and proceeded to sadistically twist my wrists around on the pretense of inspecting my gloves and instrument. So maybe I wasn't as innocent as I've liked to remember about that first inspection before my debut under the Friday night lights.
As Baby Webb moved down the lines, one of the drummers called him a name. I had not heard it used but thought I remembered seeing it mentioned on one of my friend's five foot bookshelf lists. My next thought was I really should trh to find that book when I went to the library that weekend. It was surprising to see Baby Webb's face flush bright red as he quickstepped away from us and straight to Daddy Webb. He must really hate Hobbits.
A minute later, Dr. Webb marched over and demanded to know what was said to Baby Webb and by whom. Our response was to become Spartacus. Okay almost all of us. That was when I, in full form of Our Maiden of Cluelessness, piped up.
"Dr. Webb? Someone called him D***o. I'm sure we weren't aware of how upset he would get by that. We will avoid science fiction references in the future." After which I nodded brightly.
2025 Jas here. Of course I had no idea what I was talking about. This was me just trying to help. Sort of.
Dr. Webb took in a sharp lungful of air and stared at me. My fellow members of The Mighty Marching Band of Blue, all 63 of us, froze.
He recovered and asked, "What? What was that name?"
"D***o," I chirped back.
This put Dr. Webb in a tough position. He could use this as an excuse to turn the eleven in our section into a razed, greasy spot of melted instruments, exploded liter bottles of spiked cola, and my one virginal bottle of Sprite rolling to the side with its label partially burned off. That meant he would also have to explain to my parents how my sheltered raising in Lubbock, Texas was ruined by three weeks of high school in Nashville.
Or he could let it go and I and my parents would be none the wiser.*
In retrospect, he made the smart choice to turn sharply and march away from us. I don't think he even looked at us for the next week. As for me, I enjoyed some drumline loyalty cred for unintentional bravery. The next day, I went to the Thompson Lane Branch of the Nashville Public Library (best branch and librarians EVAR!) and checked out The LOTR Trilogy, The Hobbit, David Gerrold's The Man Who Folded Himself, and Ray Bradbury's October Country. To this day, I keep copies of them on my shelves and recommend them. Dropping D-Bombs to your elders? (Even though I am now an elder myself.) Not so much.
*Later that night, someone from the color guard told me what it meant.