{"id":132,"date":"2014-07-18T22:47:05","date_gmt":"2014-07-18T22:47:05","guid":{"rendered":"https:\/\/nancileewoody.com\/?page_id=132"},"modified":"2020-08-10T16:16:27","modified_gmt":"2020-08-10T16:16:27","slug":"tears-trombones-sample","status":"publish","type":"page","link":"https:\/\/nancileewoody.com\/?page_id=132","title":{"rendered":"Tears and Trombones: First Chapter"},"content":{"rendered":"

Available on Amazon.com<\/a>
\nPublished by The Sandhill Review Press<\/a>
\nFor photos and music to accompany book: https:\/\/www.bookcompanion.com\/tears_and_trombones_links2.html<\/a><\/p>\n

1.1 – 1984<\/p>\n

\"Transparent\"Father\u2019s body was paralyzed on the left side. His face sagged. A tube snaked from his mouth. Saliva slid over his slack lips and down his chin, onto his neck. The stroke had rendered him helpless, he was strapped to his bed, yet I expected him at any moment to bolt up in a rage to seek revenge on the nurses who supervised his detention. I imagined that they, who wiped the spittle from his face, changed his bags and measured his bodily fluids, turned and bathed him, kept him alive, would experience his wrath if they were tending to him when he awoke.<\/p>\n

\"Transparent\"His body jerked violently before it settled down to its unceasing shaking. I felt a tinge of pity for him, but little else except guilt for not feeling something more appropriate.<\/p>\n

\"Transparent\"I pondered the long evening ahead.<\/p>\n

\"Transparent\"\u201cMaybe some music will help us make it through the night,\u201d I said.<\/p>\n

\"Transparent\"I looked at Dad, half expecting a response. Getting none, I plugged in my tape player and moved close to his bed.<\/p>\n

\"Transparent\"\u201cWe\u2019re listening to Mozart\u2019s Requiem in D Minor. He had a commission to write the piece, you know, but told his wife that it would be played at his own funeral. He was, unfortunately, right. It was the last thing he wrote.\u201d<\/p>\n

\"Transparent\"I took a wicked delight in talking to my father this way, knew he would rather die right now than listen to anything by Mozart. I turned up the volume as much as is prudent in intensive care, closed my eyes and spoke over the music.<\/p>\n

\"Transparent\"\u201cBe sure to listen for the trombone solo in the Third Movement. It\u2019s called the Tuba Mirum.\u201d I played the Requiem throughout the night. Very late, with the chorus soaring, I dozed off.<\/p>\n

\"Transparent\"I was awakened by a cacophony of loud beeps, alarms and footsteps as nurses rushed into the room. In a flurry of activity, they checked Dad\u2019s blood pressure and pulse, put a light to his eyes. They called for a doctor who repeated everything they had just done. Finally, the doctor shook his head, indicating the battle was over.<\/p>\n

\"Transparent\"He pulled the sheet over my dad\u2019s face. \u201cI\u2019m sorry. We did all we could. We\u2019ll leave you two alone now.\u201d<\/p>\n

\"Transparent\"The room was silent. Dad was still. I felt nothing. Tentatively, I slid my chair to his bedside and pulled the sheet from his face. His eyes, open, revealed not a trace of the smirk or disdain that I expected. He seemed peaceful, his face untainted by anger or remorse.<\/p>\n

1943<\/p>\n

\"Transparent\"I can still feel her coming to get me out of bed, the trailer shuddering with each footstep as she comes clomping from the kitchen. I can feel her desire to help me break away, though she has but a vague idea of how to go about it, never having escaped herself. This seemingly ordinary day was to be a pivotal one for me and, except for the fact that my mother had a lofty but unformed vision for my future, I might never have gotten out of bed that morning.<\/p>\n

****<\/p>\n

1.1<\/p>\n

\"Transparent\"\u201cThis is the third and last time I\u2019m telling you to get up.\u201d She jerked the blanket off me. \u201cNow.\u201d<\/p>\n

\"Transparent\"I smashed my fist into the mattress. \u201cI hate school and I ain\u2019t going.\u201d<\/p>\n

\"Transparent\"\u201cDon\u2019t you be saying \u2018ain\u2019t\u2019 when you\u2019re talking to me,\u201d she snarled. \u201cAnd in case you think a nine-year-old kid makes his own decisions around here, think again.\u201d<\/p>\n

\"Transparent\"She spun around to leave, still talking. \u201cOne thing I know for sure is you won\u2019t be making any new friends here in bed.\u201d<\/p>\n

\"Transparent\"She rattled pans in the kitchen so nobody could sleep even if they wanted to. I plopped down at the table, ate a plate-sized pancake and asked for another before trudging down the dirt road. The school bell was ringing as I slipped in at the back of the line just in time to have to listen to some older kid who started out his bragging the minute I arrived.<\/p>\n

\"Transparent\"\u201cGuess what I get to do?\u201d<\/p>\n

\"Transparent\"Nobody answered or even cared but he kept on.<\/p>\n

\"Transparent\"\u201cI\u2019m going to the City to hear a man play his violin.\u201d He lowered his head and glanced at me, smiled an ugly smile. \u201cProbably none of you ever even saw a violin.\u201d<\/p>\n

\"Transparent\"He took a chocolate bar out of his pocket and held it up so we could all get a good look. He unwrapped it slow-like and took a bite.<\/p>\n

\"Transparent\"\u201cAnyway,\u201d he went on, \u201cmy dad says that nobody in this one-horse town would care anything about a symphony concert or even that Tchaikovsky will be there.\u201d<\/p>\n

\"Transparent\"\u201cWho?\u201d I asked.<\/p>\n

\"Transparent\"\u201cChai – coff \u2013 skee,\u201d he said, looking me over good. \u201cBut they don\u2019t let fruit-picking trash like you in concert halls.\u201d<\/p>\n

\"Transparent\"\u201cJust shut up.\u201d I shoved him hard out of line. \u201cI can go anywhere I want to.\u201d<\/p>\n

\"Transparent\"\u201cLiar!\u201d he said, pointing at me. \u201cYou don\u2019t even have any shoes.\u201d<\/p>\n

\"Transparent\"I punched him in the face and kicked him. When his chocolate bar fell to the ground, I tromped on it, squishing it through my toes. \u201cYou\u2019re a piss-pot, turd face,\u201d I yelled just before the teacher grabbed me.<\/p>\n

\"Transparent\"\u201cMaurice! Joey! What\u2019s going on here?\u201d<\/p>\n

\"Transparent\"\u201cHe started it,\u201d I said, struggling to free myself.<\/p>\n

\"Transparent\"\u201cDid not!\u201d Maurice the bragger pointed to the melting chocolate mess in the dirt. \u201cLook what he just did.\u201d<\/p>\n

\"Transparent\"\u201cJoey! Just a few days here and you\u2019re in trouble already.\u201d She yanked me inside and stuck me in the corner for the rest of the morning without even listening to my side.<\/p>\n

\"Transparent\"After school, I left there quick, running. As I got close to our trailer, I stopped by the wooden storage shed dad had cobbled together just so I could savor the yeasty, wonderful smell of fresh baked bread. The shed stood with its door hanging open, padlock dangling. A 25-pound sack of flour was leaning against the wall, its top slashed open, a measuring cup and sifter poking out of the soft, white contents. On a small shelf alongside the half full bag of flour were two more neatly folded empty bags with blue and yellow flowers on them.<\/p>\n

\"Transparent\"Knowing I\u2019d have to tell her about the fight with Mr. Stuck Up Asshole Turd Face, I opened the screen door, knowing she would be standing there with her apron on, sprinkling flour over the small wooden table and no longer mad at me. She smiled as I opened the screen door.<\/p>\n

\"Transparent\"I figured I\u2019d get it over with right away. \u201cI got in a fight today, but I didn\u2019t start it.\u201d<\/p>\n

\"Transparent\"She put down her rolling pin. A frown replaced her smile.<\/p>\n

\"Transparent\"\u201cSome kid was making fun of me,\u201d I cried. \u201cHe called me trash and said I couldn\u2019t go to a concert like him because I don\u2019t have any shoes and I said I could, too. So can I?\u201d<\/p>\n

\"Transparent\"\u201cWhat concert?\u201d<\/p>\n

\"Transparent\"\u201cChai – koff – skee,\u201d I said, proud of myself for remembering. \u201cHe has a violin. It\u2019s a symphony concert in the City.\u201d<\/p>\n

\"Transparent\"\u201cYou can\u2019t get blood out of a turnip, Joey. We barely have enough food to eat and you want to go to some concert.\u201d She pushed her hair back from her face, leaving a smudge of flour on her forehead. \u201cHow do you think we\u2019d pay for it?\u201d<\/p>\n

\"Transparent\"\u201cYou hide money sometimes.\u201d<\/p>\n

\"Transparent\"\u201cNot for wasting.\u201d She wiped her hands on her apron, looked at me. \u201cIn my whole life, I\u2019ve never been to any kind of concert. I doubt if you\u2019ll even like the symphony.\u201d<\/p>\n

\"Transparent\"\u201cI will, too, like it!\u201d<\/p>\n

\"Transparent\"\u201cAnd San Francisco\u2019s got traffic and cable cars everywhere.\u201d She sounded impatient. \u201cAnd hills so steep you think you\u2019re going to roll off the earth.\u201d<\/p>\n

\"Transparent\"\u201cMaurice is a crappy jerk and he was making fun of me. I had to say I could go.\u201d I clenched my fists and pounded on my hips. \u201cTake me just this once. I promise I\u2019ll never ask for anything ever again.\u201d<\/p>\n

\"Transparent\"\u201cYou\u2019ve got to be the most persistent kid in the world.\u201d She plopped the dough on the table. \u201cI need to make a pie now.\u201d<\/p>\n

\"Transparent\"\u201cNo.\u201d I yanked on her apron. \u201cNot yet. You didn\u2019t say you\u2019d take me.\u201d<\/p>\n

\"Transparent\"\u201cI\u2019ll have to think about it.\u201d<\/p>\n

\"Transparent\"\u201cThat means you\u2019re not going to do it. \u201d I stomped away, my throat tight, eyes burning.<\/p>\n

\"Transparent\"\u201cYou don\u2019t need to be walking away from me like that.\u201d She came after me, knelt down, wiped away my tears with her fingers.<\/p>\n

\"Transparent\"\u201cListen, now. For the life of me, I don\u2019t understand why this is so important to you.\u201d She shook her head a little, stood. \u201cBut since I can see it is, I\u2019ll try to find a way to get us there, if it\u2019s not too much money.\u201d<\/p>\n

\"Transparent\"I\u2019d won. I put my arms around her waist, hugged her tight. \u201cThey won\u2019t let me in barefoot.\u201d<\/p>\n

\"Transparent\"\u201cThere\u2019s a rummage sale this weekend,\u201d she said, rumpling my hair. \u201cLooks like I\u2019d better cut that thick mop of yours, too.\u201d She put her finger in front of her lips. \u201cLet\u2019s keep this just between the two of us for now,\u201d she whispered, though there wasn\u2019t anybody else around. \u201cI\u2019ll tell Vernon when the time is right.\u201d<\/p>\n

***<\/p>\n

\"Transparent\"My older brother and I shared a tiny room off the kitchen, with one bed on either side of the short passageway that led to the not-much-bigger bedroom at the back end of the trailer where my parents slept, just a sliding door between the rooms. John had taped a photograph of dad to the wall over his bed. In it, dad\u2019s head was tilted slightly, his lips curled into a barely discernible smile, his nearly-black hair slicked neatly back. He was shirtless, holding a beer in one hand. On the wall over my bed, I had taped dozens of puppy photos torn from old magazines – collies, German shepherds, retrievers, terriers, mutts – as many photos lapped over each other as would fit on the wall from my pillow to the ceiling.<\/p>\n

\"Transparent\"On the night mom chose to tell dad about our concert in San Francisco, she wore a dress with little blue and yellow flowers on it. She had sewed a ruffle around the hem and designed a belt that tied around her waist and made a bow in the back. She put on lipstick, pinched her cheeks, let her long, wavy hair hang loose.<\/p>\n

\"Transparent\"Dad took notice. \u201cWell, look at you.\u201d He put his hands around her waist as she put a cold beer on the weather-worn table. He patted his thighs, grinned, and said, \u201cSit yourself here for awhile.\u201d<\/p>\n

\"Transparent\"Mom laughed her flirty laugh as she put her arms around his neck, sat on his lap, laid her head on his shoulder. \u201cSo you like my new dress?\u201d She snuggled her face into his neck.<\/p>\n

\"Transparent\"\u201cYou don\u2019t look like no mom of two boys, I\u2019ll say that.\u201d<\/p>\n

\"Transparent\"She kissed him on the lips before she scooted off his lap. She went inside and brought out a loaf of bread hot from the oven, corn on the cob and baked potatoes piled onto a plate, fried Spam, sliced tomatoes. And, she had filled the icebox with Pabst Blue Ribbon.<\/p>\n

\"Transparent\"She winked at Dad. \u201cLet\u2019s eat now. Later, John can take his little brother into town to watch the free movie tonight.\u201d<\/p>\n

\"Transparent\"\u201cI\u2019m thinking that\u2019s the best idea I\u2019ve heard all day,\u201d Dad said, reaching for his beer.<\/p>\n

Available on Amazon.com<\/a>
\nPublished by The Sandhill Review Press<\/a><\/div>\n","protected":false},"excerpt":{"rendered":"

Available on Amazon.com Published by The Sandhill Review Press For photos and music to accompany book: https:\/\/www.bookcompanion.com\/tears_and_trombones_links2.html 1.1 – 1984 Father\u2019s body was paralyzed on the left side. His face sagged. A tube snaked from his mouth. Saliva slid over his slack lips and down his chin, onto his neck. The stroke had rendered him […]<\/p>\n","protected":false},"author":1,"featured_media":0,"parent":0,"menu_order":16,"comment_status":"open","ping_status":"open","template":"","meta":{"footnotes":""},"class_list":["post-132","page","type-page","status-publish","hentry"],"_links":{"self":[{"href":"https:\/\/nancileewoody.com\/index.php?rest_route=\/wp\/v2\/pages\/132","targetHints":{"allow":["GET"]}}],"collection":[{"href":"https:\/\/nancileewoody.com\/index.php?rest_route=\/wp\/v2\/pages"}],"about":[{"href":"https:\/\/nancileewoody.com\/index.php?rest_route=\/wp\/v2\/types\/page"}],"author":[{"embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/nancileewoody.com\/index.php?rest_route=\/wp\/v2\/users\/1"}],"replies":[{"embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/nancileewoody.com\/index.php?rest_route=%2Fwp%2Fv2%2Fcomments&post=132"}],"version-history":[{"count":24,"href":"https:\/\/nancileewoody.com\/index.php?rest_route=\/wp\/v2\/pages\/132\/revisions"}],"predecessor-version":[{"id":706,"href":"https:\/\/nancileewoody.com\/index.php?rest_route=\/wp\/v2\/pages\/132\/revisions\/706"}],"wp:attachment":[{"href":"https:\/\/nancileewoody.com\/index.php?rest_route=%2Fwp%2Fv2%2Fmedia&parent=132"}],"curies":[{"name":"wp","href":"https:\/\/api.w.org\/{rel}","templated":true}]}}