Trombone in the Town Band

I played trombone in high school and then put it in a closet for forty-four years. When I retired, my wife told me our town's community band was looking for brass players. "Go," she said. "You hum marches in the shower."

My first rehearsal was humbling. My lips gave out after twenty minutes. I couldn't read the music fast enough. The seventy-nine-year-old tuba player next to me whispered, "Just play the loud parts. Nobody will notice."

Now, a year later, I can play a whole concert. We perform in the bandstand every Sunday in summer: Sousa marches, show tunes, a medley of movie themes. Kids dance in the grass. Older couples bring folding chairs and sandwiches. Dogs howl along with the high notes.

At the Fourth of July concert, I had a short solo. My wife waved a poster from the third row of lawn chairs: "THAT'S MY TROMBONE GUY." I missed one note. Nobody noticed.