Notes for my Therapist

Grayson wants music lessons. More accurately, he wants to be able to play an instrument loudly and well without taking any lessons at all. So let’s talk about music shall we? And let’s start in the most obvious place: elementary school speeches.

In grade four I wrote a speech about Scouting in Canada that ended up making it into the school finals. In grade six, I wrote a rabble-rousing speech called “Kids are People Too!” that played upon the typical tween’s overdeveloped sense of injustice and the blatant unfairness of having to wait in line to enter the local convenience store which was then called Don’s (poor Don had been ripped off by more than his fair share of tweens). That speech also made it to the school finals. In grade five, however, I threw together a last-minute, poorly researched speech about music. Why I chose this as my subject, I have no idea. I had a boombox in my room (back then it was called a ghetto-blaster) and I owned a set of cherished Beatles tapes that my older brother had made for me but this was really the extent of my musical background.

Thus I knew, as I suffered through that entire speech with an uncontrollable quiver in my voice, that I wasn’t impressing anyone, certainly not Mr. Murphy and the few classmates who were actually listening. I couldn’t wait to sit down. When the speech was done, I just had to get through a couple of lame questions from my audience and then I could take my seat. That was when David Craig – who I had a crush on at the time – very slyly asked me what I thought of Chuck Berry. He knew full well that I wouldn’t know the answer and he smirked at me as I struggled to come up with one. Of course I said “Who is Chuck Berry?” and the class laughed at me, though I would bet that half of them didn’t know the answer either. I forgave David and continued to have a crush on him but the point he had made was something I already knew: that I just didn’t know much about music. And I guess I still don’t. I would love to be able to play the guitar or sit at a piano and do more than just pick my way through Fur Elise, but beyond understanding that Every Good Boy Deserves Fudge and All Cows Eat Grass, I have never done much in the way of music lessons.

Was that a pang you just felt for that young version of me? That poor little girl who went to sleep each night cradling her Beatles tapes and dreaming of impressing the likes of David Craig with her musicality? Why, oh why – you are thinking – did that potentially very talented young girl not get her fill of music lessons?

Mum? Dad? Is there something you would like to say to the class?

No?

When I was very young – perhaps about eight or nine years old – I decided that I desperately wanted to play an instrument. I had several friends who took piano lessons, a friend who played the organ, and I knew a few kids who were in the town band. We didn’t have a piano at home so piano lessons were not really an option and lessons, to be fair, were an expensive proposition. The town band, however, was free. All I had to do was sign up. They would give me an instrument and provide me with instruction. So one day I walked into the white clapboard building that served as our band hall and told the band leaders I wanted to join. The lady at the door asked me what I’d like to play. “Saxophone” I said with absolute certainty. I just knew I wanted to play one of those shiny, curvy saxophones and I could already picture how cool I would one day be. The lady smiled at me. “Let’s start with the clarinet” she said. She handed me an old black case with white numbers painted on the side and pointed to an empty chair across the room. Fifteen young heads turned towards me, all braces and spots or pre-pubescent gawkiness and not one happy face amongst them. It was a little intimidating, but I took my place.

I had to do my drills of course; those nightly lessons were a repetitive but necessary part of any good band member’s life. And I was eager and diligent and determined to be good. Immediately after dinner that first night, I proudly informed my parents that I was going to practise my clarinet. Shutting my bedroom door, I sat on the bed surrounded by dolls and stuffed animals. My music book lay open in front of me. Each of the lessons inside was to be repeated at least three times and I was to start with the first four lessons.

I flipped through to the appropriate spot and began.

Page One. Lesson One. I wet the reed a little, took a deep breath, and blew: Arrrunnnhhhhhhh. Arrruuhh Arrruhhh Arrrrunnnhhhhhhhhhhhhhh.

I paused when I heard snickering.

Lesson One (second time). A little dab of spit on the reed, deep breath, and: Arrrunnnhhhhhhh. Arrruuhh Arrruhhh Arrrrunnnhhhhhhhhhhhh.

Snorts of laughter burst from the kitchen.

Lesson One (third time through). Another deep breath, watch my finger placements: Arrrunnnhhhhhhh. Arrruuhh Arrruhhh Arrrrunnnhhhhhhhhhhhh.

And peals of unbridled laughter stopped my practice.

I threw open my bedroom door and looked down the hall at the kitchen table. There sat my Mum, my Dad, and my older brother, Darran, nearly wetting themselves.

I glared. My Mum saw me and quickly shushed the other two.

Shutting the door, I sat back down on my bed, and turned the page of my music book:

Lesson Two. A touch of spit, a deep breath, focus on my fingers: Arrruhh Arruhh Arrunnnhhhhhh-uh. Arruhh Arruhh Arrunnnnhhhhhhh-uh.

My family fell apart.

I whipped open my door again and this time stormed down the hallway, hands on hips. “What are you laughing at?” I demanded. My Dad couldn’t lift his head up from the table and my brother was on the floor.

My Mum wiped tears from her eyes “Oh love,” she said, “We can’t help it.”

My Dad tried to speak but sounded more like he might be choking and my brother had made his way under the table so he didn’t have to look at me.

“But why?’ I said. ”What’s so funny?”

At which point I was informed with the characteristic bluntness of an Edmundson that I sounded very much like a cow in labour. Then they fell to pieces all over again.

For me, this signalled the beginning of the end of my musical career. I lasted about four more weeks altogether but I was never able to play again without a) hearing chuckles from any family member within hearing range and b) hearing myself as a wailing cow – such a distant cry from that sexy saxophone I had imagined.

And so, it is with great sadness that I must tell you I never did become first clarinetist in the Acton Town Band, a fact I shall very likely remember if I should ever find myself in charge of refilling my parents’ prescriptions at the pharmacy, for example, or helping one of them to navigate a treacherous hill in a wheelchair.

For now, I’ll be in the other room gently encouraging my older son’s nascent musical talent.