In fourth grade I discovered that I had many talents. I could build some pretty cool things with wood and pottery, and was good at drawing.
I could fish, identify animal tracks, read at a pretty high level, split wood and dig a pretty good hole when needed.
These are all things that made me happy.
Up until that point in my life I was pretty good at achieving my goal at most everything I tried.
But that all came to a screeching halt when Mr. Gannon, the music teacher from the Town of Webb School, started making his appearance at the Inlet School.
He outfitted me with a cornet, an instrument which he said I had a readiness to play.
What he did not know was that readiness did not necessarily translate into any real musical talent.
I remember the first time I put my lips against the bitter tasting mouthpiece and smelled the oil used to make the finger plungers move.
The taste, smell and sound were “soul sour” and in the deepest part of me I knew this was not something I was going to enjoy.
But like all the other new things I attempted at that age I tried my best to deal with the task by having some fun with it.
I blew into the instrument as hard as I could to make loud noises that were a far cry from being described as music.
Before long I began to feel resentful of the required practicing of this instrument as it kept me from doing all the things I would rather be doing.
Any joy I initially found in it had disappeared to the point that I hated the very case it was housed in.
In fact, the only thing I actually enjoyed about it was putting it back in the case, snapping down the chrome flappers and nudging it under my bed and out of sight.
I’m pretty sure that Mr. Gannon was as happy as I was when I told him the cornet and I were just not having a good time together.