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day, but had never imagined that it would be she that walked me through it. I had always pictured my father taking me to the shop, having squirreled away his pennies, to help me in my endeavor. All that faded as soon as I walked into the store.
    I had no idea what I was going to choose. It was already made clear that a saxophone was off the table, so what then? A flute? I picked one up and tried to play it, but it seemed awkward and too girly. Clarinet was on par with the sax, so no-go there. Drums? I didn’t even bother. I wanted to make music; I didn’t care about the beat. All that was left was the brass.
    The trombone seemed pretty cool, alien with its slurry slide and it was as long as I was. The shopkeeper handed it over, gave me a few pointers in how to approach the imposing beast and I blew . . . Phffflurrrrgh . . . What came out was a noise akin to a dying calf. Hardly inspiring.
    I began to sweat a little. There was a moment where I wondered if I wasn’t made for this. How ridiculous would it be to have spent all those years pining and then have it turn out that I actually had no talent for it whatsoever?
    â€œMaybe the trumpet?” the shopkeeper offered sheepishly.
    He pulled the thing down from the display wall, cleaned off the mouthpiece, and handed it to me. Solid and heavy in my hands, it didn’t exactly feel like the romance of music that lived in my head. Still, I had to try.
    As directed, I put the cold, metal mouthpiece to my pursed lips and buzzed. To my amazement, what came out the other end was immediately recognizable. The noise I made actually sounded like the real thing. I pushed at the piston valves, making out differing notes.
    I successfully voiced a low tone: Whhuuaaaahh!
    Then, as I was instructed, pursed tighter and with more air: Whheeeeee!
    Despite having no real clue as to what I was doing, the match seemed ordained. “It looks like we have a winner,” declared the keeper. “So, whaddya think?” he said, turning to my stepmother, ready to make the sale.
    Minutes later I was walking out the door with my very own Conn Director. It wasn’t a brand new horn, she came preloved, but she was mine now. A striking beauty she was, too. Unlike other trumpets, which were usually uniformly plated with the familiar golden brass, she had a rose-colored copper bell to help her stand out from the crowd. With a little practice, we were going to make wonderful music together.
    Once I got her home, I put my head down and got to work. I had twelve weeks before school started. I didn’t want to embarrass myself when I got to band class, so I tore into my books. I challenged my poor, tender lips to keep pace with what I wanted to accomplish. I played every minute of the day that I could physically handle.
    After only a couple of weeks of practicing alone, I tripped into my first lesson. My practice had apparently paid off.
    My instructor assumed that I had been playing for a couple of years, similar to the course that was expected of my peers. When I told him that I had just started, he seemed confused. Hetested my honesty. In his mind, there was no way I could be playing as well as I was in only a few weeks.
    â€œYou mean to tell me you just started playing? You didn’t start in fifth grade with the other kids?”
    â€œNo,” I maintained. I was equally surprised that he found it questionable.
    After a momentary pause, he moved on. “Well then, let’s find something to challenge you.”
    For the rest of the summer, he introduced and tested me with all manner of taxing exercises. Etudes, articulation drills, and slurring assignments. I ate it all up. I worked tirelessly at perfecting my skills and adored the work. It didn’t hurt that my instructor said that I had talent. I relished the fact that I had a kind of gift that made me feel worthwhile. His endorsement encouraged me to press on. I couldn’t wait to put my