Lizzie Writes

Trumpet Lips

by Liz Alley

When I was in the 6th grade at Tiger Elementary, on Tuesdays and Thursdays, Mr. Chain, the music teacher at the high school, came to our school for music class. One day, Mr. Chain brought in the instruments we’d seen in the marching band on Friday nights at the football games: flutes, clarinets, drums, trombones, and even a tuba! I kept my distance initially because I was enthralled with the cases that housed the instruments. While the other kids got busy deciding which instrument they liked best, I ran my hand over the crushed velvet linings of the cases and opened the little doors that held reeds and mouthpieces. I wanted them all, the cases; I didn’t care about the instruments.

I already knew what my mother wanted me to play, as she had told me about a million times, the flute. My sister Lynn played the clarinet, and Mom thought we’d be sweet playing our instruments together. I tried the flute, but it took a lot of blowing for a little sound, and just when I was deciding none of the instruments were for me, Mr. Chain brought out the trumpet. I blew into the mouthpiece with all my might; the sound that came out was one of a sick duck; I was in love. I declared then and there; the trumpet was my instrument.

That afternoon, I ran home to tell Mother. “Mama,” I said, panting when I came in the back door, “I want to play the trumpet!” She looked at me calmly and said we would talk about it, and I could tell right off that she would push the flute on me again. I told her about the sound I’d made with the trumpet and was sure not to mention everything I’d thought I could carry inside the case’s velvet trap doors. “Liz, the trumpet is as big as you are, and that case will be hard for you to carry. Don’t you want to try the flute again?” There it was, that blasted flute, but I was stubborn and stuck to my guns until Mother sighed and gave in.

I was a skinny kid, and this fact and my swollen lips from trumpet practice gave me the look of a battered and malnourished child. “Lord,” Mama would say when she saw me after practice, “ people are going to think we hit you in the mouth and starve you to death, Liz,” then she’d start pushing the flute again, but I would not be moved. Besides, Mr. Chain had already given me a huge compliment. When he showed me how to clean my trumpet, he said, “You sure do have a lot of spit to be such a little thing.”

At the end of the year, Tiger and Clayton Elementary schools would be combined to perform a concert. On the first day of practice for the concert, he told us there would be a trumpet solo, and he would choose one of the four trumpet players for the part. I glanced at the other three players, two of whom could barely play a thing, so I sure wasn’t worried about them. However, beside me was a boy with long, delicate fingers and feathered blond hair who could play very well; his name was Rocky. Since Tiger School was considerably smaller than Clayton, I was our school’s only trumpet player. I wanted to represent my school well, but I also wanted Mama to wonder why she ever pushed the flute on me when I was clearly made to play the trumpet.

The solo piece was challenging, and I practiced so much that my lip swelling became an issue. Mama bought a special salve and put it on my lips every night, mumbling about how the flute wouldn’t have caused so many problems. Finally, the day arrived for the tryout. Rocky went first; he placed his fingers on the valves, tilted his head, and with a deep breath, effortlessly played the piece until he reached the highest note, which he missed, but kept going so well I wondered if I’d heard right. In all honesty, he was a better trumpet player than I, as he played with a naturalness I didn’t possess, as evident from my swollen lips and his soft, normal-looking lips.

Mr. Chain made some notes and then asked me to take my place in the chair. When Mr. Chain raised his baton, I began to play with all my might; my trumpet pressed to my lips as hard as I could take it. I hit every note perfectly. When it was over, Mr. Chain said he needed a few minutes to decide. He struggled because he knew Rocky was a natural, and I was playing on pure determination. However, he couldn’t deny I hit the top note. Reluctantly, he announced that I had won.

I’ll never forget the night of the concert when the whole band was silenced with a wave of Mr. Chain’s baton, and my trumpet rang loud and clear throughout the building during my solo. Not only did my mother stand and clap, she never mentioned the flute again.

Liz Alley was born and raised in Rabun County in the city of Tiger. She loves to write. She is an interior designer specializing in repurposing the broken, tarnished, chipped, faded, worn and weathered into pieces that are precious again. She is the mother of two daughters and has three grandchildren. She divides her time between her home in Newnan and Rabun County. Liz would love to hear from you, drop her a line at Lizziewrites0715@gmail.com and enjoy more of Liz’s writing at Lizzie-writes.blog

Liz Alley was born and raised in Rabun County in the city of Tiger. She loves to write. She is an interior designer specializing in repurposing the broken, tarnished, chipped, faded, worn and weathered into pieces that are precious again. She is the mother of two daughters and has three grandchildren. She divides her time between her home in Newnan and Rabun County. Liz would love to hear from you, drop her a line at Lizziewrites0715@gmail.com and enjoy more of Liz’s writing at Lizzie-writes.blog