My husband has a dream. Not the Martin Luther King Jr. kind either. His dream is to be a drummer. He is always banging on something. The steering wheel, the kitchen counter, my head.
For Christmas I splurged and got him some Under Armour for those freezing days of feeding cattle. Or for those freezing nights when it the windchill is -2, like right now. He’s so cute in his long, red underwear with the butt flap that I hated to upgrade, but he requested them, so I complied.
As I was heading back home, I passed a music store. And the thought occurred to me, what if?
What if I got him some drums?
I knew they cost a pretty penny, so I pulled in to do a quick price check, just a price check.
I was greeted by a ditzy college girl and asked how I may be helped. I mentioned I’d like to price some drums. She directed me to a dark room in the back where guitars hung from the ceiling and a couple of pierced, tattooed guys sat restringing guitars. I felt like Shirley Temple in a XXX store. Timidly, I stated what I’d like look at and began to feel even more out of place when Tattoo asked, “Are these for yourself?”
Tattoo showed me the best drum set for a beginner drummer and informed me of a lay-away plan. I eagerly signed up.
I got a catalog, dog-eared the page, and quickly left. When I got home, I laid the catalog in the box beneath the long-handles and wrapped it up nice. I could hardly restrain myself from telling Jason as soon as he got home, but it was still several days until Christmas.
We exchanged gifts a couple of days before Christmas, mostly due to my incessant nagging for my own present.
Jason was thrilled when he found the catalog
Jason was able to wait about 2 weeks before he went to the music store and paid the rest of the balance himself to get them sooner. So now, there are drums in my living room and earplugs in my ears. Jason has banged on them, watched DVD’s, and has had two guys over to tune them and give him some quickie lessons. I’ve even sat at the piano and played a couple of songs with him.
The only problem is, I suck.
If you live next door to us, I apologize right now. But my little drummer man is in hog heaven.
too funny, charlie waltzer, used to fancy himself as a drummer. only he had a coors beer case, wrapped in duct tape. and he'd get down with anyone that was playing. had a couple fights over playing with the wrong people. it seems they'd forget that they were out there just to have fun. tell jace , not to forget that part, just to have fun with them. and play the hell out of them. dad
You do not suck!!! Did your piano teacher not tell you that you are the most advanced teacher she has…..and have you not been playing piano for LESS than two years???? Did she also tell you that you are playing so well that she may not be able to teach you much longer? Toot your own horn!Mama
Whoops! I posted and then read back. I meant to write student…..not teacher.Mama