If a composer could say what he had to say in words he would not bother trying to say it in music. ~Gustav Mahler, Austro-Bohemian Romantic composer and conductor
She hasn’t written about it in a while, but Mama is still playing flute.
In fact, she plays nearly Every. Single. Day.
If she’s not practicing songs for symphonic band in the fall, winter, and spring, she’s practicing for community band in the summer.
Or for her individual lessons.
Scales, duets, something called long tones, triple tonguing, and so on.
Now, with a concert in just two weeks, she’s really stressing.
I’ve heard her complain about these songs — too many fast runs, challenging rhythms, odd key signatures.
But she’s getting better (so her teacher says).
I wouldn’t know.
I used to love listening — and singing — when The Kid brought his trumpet home.
We’d hop on the daybed together, he’d blow a note or two, and I’d toss back my head and sing like a bird.
But I was a young’un then.
Mama says maybe I liked a brass sound better than a woodwind sound.
Because I’ve never sung to her flute.
Still, it seems to me that silence is better than a noisy protest.
Like this doggo that Mama thinks is hilarious.
Hmph. The poor thing’s ears are probably hurting from all that din!
Anyway, my favorite spot these days is lying beneath Mama as she practices. I’m more comforted by her presence than I am by the music she’s playing.
You see, I’m 13 now (officially a “senior pup”), and I have a bit of trouble hearing.
Even a high-pitched flute.
Mama says I’ve got selective hearing because the minute she picks up the rattly bag of cookie-treats, I come a-running!
Gee, Mama, don’t you know even senior pups never lose their entire sense of smell?