Silvery, Mellow Songs

My lovely flute is a very old lady, older by a decade than me, which means she could draw Social Security if she could just acquire a card. I don't know her story before I found her some twenty-eight years ago, but she was pretty beat up.

My parents were simply the best. They were frugal and hard-working, with one small income between them. They carefully assessed our gifts and leanings to make the most of our opportunities. We were not allowed to quit "mid-season" in any of our sports or lessons, so we were very deliberate about what we committed to. I had a musical soul, so they paid for piano lessons for me, starting in sixth grade. I loved the piano (though I wish I could go back and tether myself to those years of lessons and really learn it). Either way, the summer before ninth grade, I begged them to let me play the flute. They prudently rented one from Ken Stanton Music for $5 a month, bought me a beginner band book and cut me loose. I taught myself how to play that summer. The first time I got to play with the band the next year, I thought I had died and gone to heaven. There is nothing like the magic of playing along with other instruments. 

The piano eventually took a back seat, but I never really put my flute down. After we married and had children, I taught beginner students in our home, and played in various church groups and community bands. But when I let a family borrow my flute for a season, to see if their daughter took to it, it came back to me dented and sad. I sold it cheaply to another student and began looking for a new one. My extended family gave me money for my birthday and Christmas, to help with the purchase. I looked in earnest, at used and new ones, but struggled to find what I could both love and afford. An instrument broker (yes, there are those), a very gentle and kind man (I believe his name was Bill Smith)...let me take several of them home, to see if I really liked them. I didn't know that different flutes spoke with distinct voices. So I played and played the various ones, taking them all back. He called me one afternoon and told me that he had three more for me to try, and that one was special. 

It was a quirky flute, shorter than normal, made of real silver, with a giant embouchere hole (the part that you blow in)... it made it harder to play, breathier than other flutes, and difficult to get high or low notes with. It also took more lung power. She also needed a serious overhaul, which would take time and money. But when I played this flute, there was a warmth that no other had, a mellow, rich undertone that won me over. I took her straight to the repair shop. The gentleman carefully fixed her, then told me to never get rid of it, that it was a rare and precious find. He also told me to not let anyone talk me into changing out the headjoint, even though it was more difficult to play. Ken thoughtfully surprised me that year with a new flute case for my birthday and we've been stuck together ever since. She's had two overhauls and I take her once a year to get a bath and a tune-up. 

Silly, how a thing can become like a friend. I appreciate her most at Christmas, for some reason. We play all the lovely seasonal hymns and the haunting "What Child Is This?-- surely the prettiest thing a flute can play. I took this semester off from the Carroll Community Wind Ensemble to catch up and lick my wounds, but I'm already missing my artistic-soul-compatriots and our togetherness. Meanwhile, there's church and the occasional afternoon interlude. I thank God for sweet blessings like these.