There’s an old joke about a young boy who took tuba lessons. He came home thrilled after the first lesson, having learned to play a C. The next week, he told his Pops, he’d learned to play a G. The next week the father was frantic because his son didn’t come home when he was expected. He finally arrived a lot later and the father asked where his son had been. “Relax, Dad, I had a gig.”
My brother was (and is) a tuba player, and I’m sure he’d laugh at that joke old though it may be but he’d probably also argue that there’s a little more to it than the two notes. I followed his footsteps into the low brass section, opting for the trombone over its weightier kinfolk.
While all instruments are needed, my feelings are strong. Trumpets? Eeh. Woodwinds? Okay. Strings? I guess. But I love to hear low brass. I guess it was programmed into me during band camp. 😊
Anyway, the low brass tribute seemed appropriate today because it’s my brother’s birthday. Yep, the one who causes me to write 6/5/65 anytime I write today’s date despite the fact I wasn’t even born then is celebrating a birthday. And I, for one, want to offer a hearty Oompah in his honor.