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    Confessions of a Marching Band Member: The Confessions Series, #1
    Confessions of a Marching Band Member: The Confessions Series, #1
    Confessions of a Marching Band Member: The Confessions Series, #1
    Ebook98 pages1 hour

    Confessions of a Marching Band Member: The Confessions Series, #1

    By Michele L. Mathews

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    About this ebook

    I hated marching band my freshman year of high school.

     

    So why did I stay in for three more years?

     

    When I first joined marching band, I didn't know anyone. My shyness made it hard for me to make friends. Even worse, I couldn't march in step so the staff and upperclassmen yelled at me. And then we didn't make state finals by one point.

     

    Find out why I stayed in band for three more years and how it changed my life in Confessions of a Marching Band Member.

    LanguageEnglish
    PublisherBeach Girl Publishing LLC
    Release dateApr 29, 2021
    ISBN9798201024093
    Confessions of a Marching Band Member: The Confessions Series, #1
    Author

    Michele L. Mathews

    Michele L. Mathews is the author of women’s fiction, memoirs, and travelogues. She is a freelance editor and owns Beach Girl Publishing. She lives in south central Indiana and is the single mom of two humans and three fur babies. In addition to writing, her passions are photography, reading, traveling (especially the beach!), and Rick Springfield.

    Read more from Michele L. Mathews

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      Book preview

      Confessions of a Marching Band Member - Michele L. Mathews

      Chapter 1

      I hated marching band when I joined in seventh grade. Hate is a strong word I know. Maybe dislike is a better one. Maybe marching band wasn't what I hated. Maybe it was the band director. After all, I had enjoyed sixth grade band and that director, Mr. Norris Huston. It hadn't involved marching, though, but why did I even join band at all?

      Maybe I joined band based on my need to belong, and since I wasn’t athletically inclined, it became my one and only extra-curricular activity. Joining band might have been my dad’s influence, too. He had been a drummer when he was in his high school band. Mr. Huston had been my dad’s director.

      Deciding on an instrument to play proved to be difficult. Mr. Huston talked me out of playing the trumpet, the instrument I wanted to learn. He told my mom that since I would be getting a metal mouth eventually, I should learn the flute or clarinet. Neither of them would interfere with braces as much as a trumpet would. I chose the clarinet.

      Instead of spending enormous bucks on a new clarinet, my parents bought me a used plastic one, as opposed to wood, for $75 from some strangers. The clarinet needed some repair work, like new pads and corks, that cost around $100. I had really wanted a new one, but if I wasn’t sure about staying in band, my parents wouldn’t lose as much money. I didn’t blame them one bit.

      I only had Mr. Huston for one year, but one thing I remember about him, and will never forget, is how he called me Michael numerous times. Michael was my dad’s first name. Of course, he wasn’t the only one who had called me Michael, so I didn’t think much of it.

      Calling me Michael was forgiven when Mr. Huston told my mom I was the best clarinet player he had out of the six. That compliment sure made me feel great. It also gave me hope that maybe I hadn’t made a mistake in joining band.

      On May 14, 1981, the thirteen of us in band prepared to play in front of the standing-room-only crowd in the small gymnasium at Andrews Elementary School. It was the night of our annual music program for parents, grandparents, and other relatives.

      The butterflies fluttered wildly in my stomach. I walked up the wooden stage stairs and prayed I wouldn’t fall on my nose and embarrass myself. Millions of thoughts zipped through my head, ones like how I hoped I didn’t forget how to finger the notes or how to blow through the instrument to make the notes come out.

      I had to sit on the front row right on the end, so everyone’s brown, blue, or whatever color eyes were on me, or so it felt like. I avoided glancing into the audience and instead focused my brown eyes either on Mr. Huston or my music stand. Doing this calmed my stomach a little bit.

      Mr. Huston smiled after our performance and made all of us—two flutes, six clarinets, two alto saxophones, two trumpets, and one drummer—stand as the crowd applauded. The relief released from my body, and I no longer thought of all the eyes watching me. I even managed a smile.

      Chapter 2

      Two weeks before summer vacation started, my mom had already bought me a pair of marching shoes. Well, not typical marching shoes, more like tennis shoes of a certain color. The shoes brought me this excited feeling, but that was where the feeling stopped.

      On, Monday, June 1, 1981, I walked into the huge band room at Riverview Junior High School. After practicing at the end of the small cafeteria during the school year, this was a tad bit intimidating, and my heart raced. What was I getting myself into? I wanted to leave right then, but I couldn’t.

      I knew no one, not one of my fellow clarinet players had stayed in band. In fact, none of the other thirteen members had except the drummer, and I ignored him since he was always bugging me.

      The courage I had gained in sixth grade put me sitting in the back of this band. I wasn’t brave enough to sit in the front row. Besides, the eighth and ninth graders deserved those seats since they were older and had more seniority than I did.

      Practices started in the band room. We rehearsed the one and only song—Reach Out— over and over again. At the time, AT&T used this song for its commercials on television and radio.

      Just when I thought I knew the song well enough, we went outside to practice marching. I felt like a walking commercial as we played and marched around the school. But no matter how hard I tried, I had trouble playing and marching to the song. My brain, arms, and legs wouldn’t coordinate at all, and I didn’t feel like the best clarinet player anymore. I didn’t expect the marching to happen right away, but I was sure it would happen sooner rather than later.

      The whole situation frustrated me because I knew I should be able to do it. I had no choice but to learn how to march and play at the same time. Otherwise, I would make a fool of myself during the parades we were marching in—the Huntington Heritage Day parade and the North Webster Mermaid Festival. I absolutely refused to look bad in front of my hometown crowd and in front of both sets of grandparents, who had lake cottages in North Webster.

      And I wasn’t a quitter. Whatever I started, I finished.

      But this time a little voice said, Michele, your family is moving sixty miles away at the end of the month. Why bother getting to know the other band members and learning to march when you’re leaving?

      I honestly don’t know why I started summer marching band. I think it was something I wanted to try. It gave me something to do that month before we moved to a new city. My dad had been transferred to a new job in Kokomo, so I had no choice in the move and wasn’t looking forward to it at all.

      For the first time in my life, I didn’t finish something. What was the point in torturing myself when I was leaving? I listened to the voice and didn’t march as a Riverview Junior High Marching Raider.

      Sure, I would have learned marching fundamentals, if that’s what you called what Mr. Glover was teaching us in the three days of torture I had endured. Mr. Charles Glover, the band director, was nothing like Mr. Huston. All he really did was put us in lines and told us when to start moving and when to put up our instruments. If we didn’t march on the correct foot, he yelled at us.

      Yelling was the only reason to stay in band, and I could do without that. I never saw any of the band members or their bald band director again.

      Chapter

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