My Horn

This is my french horn. Her name is Mara. I named her in a writhing fit of peer pressure when my friend and roommate Jeff informed me that he'd named his guitar "Suzanna," and then asked me, "so what's your horn's name?" Fortunately he never got around to further humiliation by asking me to name my saxophone.

I named her a girl's name because a) I like that name, it's cool, b) because I'm a guy and that's just what we do, and c) because I don't put my lips on things named after guys. I just don't swing that way.

I've played that french horn since I got it as a gift from my parents (thanks again guys) in 10th grade. My dad came to my lesson that day bearing my new horn in its new case. I remember being very angry at Holly - she was my teacher - because she'd been in on the buying process and never even hinted to me that it was in the works. But it was very shiny, so I forgave her. It's still pretty shiny, just with more scratches on it, and lately my dog has taken to licking the silver. But it plays better than it did when I got it. Or maybe I do, I don't know. I actually remember, as we arrived in the Eastman parking garage, wondering why I saw my dad's car pass us going around a curve, then dismissing it as my imagination.

I've actually been playing french horn since my piano teacher convinced me, in fourth grade, to choose something other than the trumpet for a second instrument. I said, how about saxophone? She said no, I should really ... really ... try the french horn. Since I can't usually withstand pressure from an authority figure (I'm seeking professional counselling), I consented, and it's one of the best decisions I've ever made.

I only mention this becasue of my latest attempt to get involved in our community. I'm a musician at heart - it's one of the things I'm almost good at - and so I thought, why not use that to meet people? So I began searching for orchestras.

I discovered that most orchestras are located about an hour from me by train. Most were farther. However, there is one orchestra located down the road in Preston, a mere half hour by two trams and a bus. And they're playing solo concertos at the next concert.

Which is perfect, because it means I'll get to know my fellow horn players well. See, they don't call them "solo concertos" for nothing; the soloist shines, as do the strings and sometimes the woodwinds, but the rest of the orchestra gets to sit around and count rests. And since, during rehearsals, we end up stopping all the time, nobody actually counts them. Which leaves us, as brass players, with nothing to do but - you guessed it - talk to each other (or, perhaps, twiddle our thumbs ... or when I was in college, sometimes I'd read homework ... but mostly we talk).

So this is good. I start rehearsals in July, but I have to practice. My embechure (the muscles in my lips that I use to play) has grown, or rather, not grown, shall we say ... weak. I'm out of shape. And it hurts to play like you wouldn't believe; the muscles in the lips are among the most sensitive and delicate in the human body, and to jump back into playing after a year and a half is hard. But worth it; I'm enjoying playing again. I'm even prepping a duet to play between horn and piano so I can play with my wife; it's good stuff.