But Why?!

In keeping with today's French Horn theme, here is an article I wrote a couple of years ago for Triad, the trade journal for the Ohio Music Educator's Association. They were doing a piece on adults who went back to their roots in music.

“Why do I do this to myself?” after an hour of practicing, I laid my horn back into its case as if it were delicate crystal. What I wanted to do instead was throw it through the window. It would break the glass, push out the screen, and spin like a ballerina, slowly twirling through space with the air humming through its pipes until it smashed violently on the stone retaining wall below. And during the entire execution, I would watch from my upstairs window, arms folded, lips stretched into a sadistic and satisfied grin.


My husband had given the horn to me for my birthday the summer before, and at the age of thirty-eight, I was trying to relearn the instrument. I had begun taking horn lessons from the band teacher at the local high school who was kind enough to indulge my new interest.

So, why am I doing this?

After watching my father deteriorate with Alzheimer’s, and eventually pass away at the age of eighty—I felt mortal and knew that the amount of time I had to achieve goals, conquer fears, and test my mettle was uncertain. There was no time to waste in making my life more fruitful, regardless of how long it would last.

I also found simple pleasure in playing, and I had forgotten that pleasure which I had first discovered as a child. When Mr. Castronova, my school’s music teacher, was teaching me how to play the trumpet in sixth grade, and I was finding my place in the middle school band, I felt at home in the larger group. I was happy to be making music with other aspiring musicians and playing my part, which by itself was nonsense, but when fit together with the other pieces, made perfect sense like a puzzle.

Band was the high point of each day, but the trumpet was not a good fit. It wasn’t until the end of the ninth-grade marching band season, when I was standing on my appointed spot on the forty-yard line, as an element of a giant C for Chesterton, that I drew courage from some untapped source and quit the trumpet. In its place, Mr. Castronova gave me a dented single French horn that came complete with a fingering chart and instructions to go home and teach myself the basics. I dived in to the task of learning this beautiful instrument, which was a much better match for me than the trumpet.

I showed up on the first day of school ready for the “learners band,” because I was starting over. It wasn’t long before Mr. Castronova had us playing such moving pieces as “Pavane Pour Une Infante Defunte,” which was already one of my favorite compositions, even before I knew that the orchestration featured the horn. I remember playing my part boldly, in my head singing the melodies that I had learned on the piano. It was during that rehearsal that the directors decided I was ready for the wind ensemble, ready to play with more experienced students.

From that day on, I spent the rest of my school years focused on nothing else but band and orchestra, putting my piece of the puzzle in with the rest of the pieces in the box and knowing that I belonged.

When I graduated, the seniors who owned their own horns kept their instruments. I, instead, had to give mine back to the school and walk away empty handed. That was the last time I would even hold a horn until my thirty-eighth birthday.

Now, sitting in my straight back chair, in the far corner of my room, as I stared at my gift and wondered out loud, “Why am I doing this anyway?” I remembered how I felt when I handed my childhood horn back to the school—like I was handing off my only possession. I remembered how I felt when I played my part in the band—like I was part of something bigger than myself. And I remembered how I felt standing beside my father’s casket—like I had so much to do and such an indeterminate amount of time to do it.

“So,” I told myself, “Get back to the lip slurs, no matter how rough. Get back to the etude, no matter how sloppy.” It was time to get to work, and past time to rediscover the satisfaction and fullness that only playing music can provide.

It was also time to give a nod to Mr. Castronova and Mr. Hattendorf and Mr. Stevesand and Mr. Gordan and Mr. Kelly and all of the other music teachers who helped instill my life-long love for music. Thank you, gentlemen. I’m sorry for taking twenty years off.