In high school, I could play enough to get by in Concert Band and Marching Band, but I didn’t have much rhythm and hated to practice. My toe tapping was always out of sync with everybody else’s.

Basically, I faked my way though it. Especially in Marching Band where you were supposed to memorize the marches and fight songs.

That part in Sousa’s “Stars and Stripes Forever” where the piccolo and flutes do that syncopation and trill thing? Faked it.

Our bold pre-game march down the field to the tune of “National Emblem”? Never learned the whole thing.

But I could march.  Pick up my leg and do that perfect high step. 

I just couldn’t march and play at the same time.

In parades, I was always in the back, because band directors like to put the drums and horns front and center. So, the flutes and clarinets make up the rear.

Often, there were an uneven number of flute players, so instead of commanding a line of eight, my line was just me along with a shy overweight girl and a skinny dorky boy who thought he was funny, but was really just annoying.

We couldn’t march in a straight line to save our lives.

Not a True Band Geek

True Band Geeks are the people who are musically talented and love everything about playing in the band.

“I hated our marching band uniforms,” I said. My friend Sharie, sister Sue, and brother Eric were at the ISU Homecoming Parade lwatching the marching bands go by.

We’d all been in band in high school. Sue played the clarinet, Sharie the euphonium, and Eric the french horn.

“Really?” Sharie asked.  “I loved them.”  She was a True Band Geek, who majored in music in college and taught and performed for 30 years.

“They were smelly and old,” I said. “They flattened your chest and made your legs look like tree trunks. Plus, we had to stuff our hair up underneath that dumb hat. No wonder I didn’t have any boyfriends in high school.”

“Yes, you did,” Sue said. “What about that guy from the bowling alley?”

“Ew,” I said, remembering the boy I briefly dated after meeting him at AMF Circle Lanes one Saturday night. He was a lousy kisser.  But he had a nice car.

Pretty sure he never saw me in my smelly orange and black band uniform.

“He went to a different high school,” said Eric. “So he doesn’t count.”

No Chance

As a member of the Marching Ironmen in high school, it was my duty to play at all the home football games. So there I was, a Band Geek in a smelly orange and black uniform with a flat chest and tree trunk legs at the social event of the week.

I didn’t have a chance with the boys.

I suppose I could have been a flag girl or a baton twirler instead.  They had cuter uniforms. But again, there was that rhythm thing.

And you were more on display, something I would not have wanted.

One of our baton twirlers didn’t seem to care about that. Tall and big boned, she had stocky legs and a thick torso.

No matter what the weather, she wore something that resembled a one-piece swimsuit with nylon hose and sparkly shoes. She threw that baton up in the air under the Friday night lights, twirling and prancing around like she was at the Orange Bowl.

Too Much Flute

Despite my angst over Marching Band, I sort of liked playing in the Concert Band.  Except for that chair thing.

To decide who would sit first chair, second chair, third chair, etc., you had to tryout with the band director, Mr. Allen. In his office. Alone.

And while Mr. Allen was a nice enough man, I was scared to death of tryouts. Since I didn’t really know what I was doing, I always got very nervous and did not perform well.

“Flutes, softer.  Softer,” Mr. Allen instructed during band practices.  “Horns, give me more.” 

He said that a lot.

I can’t recall the names of my high school English, Math, or Science teachers, but I remember Mr. Allen.  He was a taskmaster who inspired us to perform our best – whether it was in concert or marching band.

So I guess being a Band Geek wasn’t so bad after all. Except for those smelly orange and black uniforms.