Memoirs: The Bassoonist

Memoirs: The Bassoonist

         The date of our orchestra fieldtrip for my sophomore year approached, and the only thing that could put a damper on my excited mood was the fact that I wouldn’t be playing my bass clarinet in the competition; instead, I would play my bassoon, which I had yet to grow attached to. I wasn’t too happy about that, but I had made sure to make my mental apologies to my bass clarinet after the spring concert before the trip. The bassoon, which was as tall as my bass clarinet when the two stood on the ground next to each other, was a double reed instrument, and the reeds cost a pretty penny; the cheapest one I owned had cost me eight dollars, and the most expensive had cost twelve. Needless to say, I was very careful with the reeds (most of the time), and I made sure never to bump or break them (most of the time).

         On the day we were due to leave for Ohio, the Orchestra director asked us if we had everything we needed for the trip—our dresses, reeds, instruments, and anything else we might need. I knew that I had everything, for I had carefully packed my belongings the night before and I never ever took my reeds out of my bassoon case. Once everyone had assured her that we had everything, we loaded up the bus and, after a head count, started the six-hour journey to Ohio. The Maryland scenery flew by, and after about an hour or so, we entered Pennsylvania. Three hours later, we were still driving through Pennsylvania, but when we crossed the Ohio border, those of us who were still awake cheered sleepily.

         We arrived at the Motel 6 where we would spend the next two nights, and after a few hours of chaotic unpacking and getting situated, everyone tumbled into bed. The bedding smelled horrible, and the pillows were flat, but somehow I managed to fall into a restless slumber. The next morning, we were up early in order to get ready for the competition, and everyone rushed around like bees around their hive. We all clambered onto the bus just a little behind schedule, but we made it to the school before it was our turn to play before the panel of judges.

         The driver parked the bus, and our Orchestra director ordered all of the instrumentalists to unpack and warm up so that we could practice in a spare classroom before we performed. I eagerly greased up the corks joints on my wooden bassoon in order to make sure it fit together smoothly. Once I had assembled the body of the bassoon, I attached the metal bocal and hooked the instrument to my black neck strap. Before I closed the case, I reached into the front compartment for my Altoid tin where I stored my reeds, but my grasping fingers met air instead of metal.

         I felt a flock of thousands of butterflies burst into flight inside my stomach as I frantically checked the secondary compartment to see if I had accidentally stored my reed tin there, but I hadn’t. Here we were in Sandusky, Ohio, I couldn’t find my reeds. Somehow I had managed to leave all of them somewhere hundreds of miles away in Maryland. I hurried to the front of the bus and struggled to keep the lump that had formed in my throat from choking me as I told my Orchestra director the bad news.

         The disbelieving look that appeared on her face made me feel ashamed of myself; I hadn’t bothered to double-check and make sure that I had packed my reeds as we waited for the bus at school. I was miserable, and my expression, which I had never been able to keep under control, precisely reflected how I felt. The director gently patted my shoulder and told me that we’d find someone with a spare reed once we got into the school where the competition was being held. I nodded, fighting back tears, and somehow managed to get myself under control as I joined the other Orchestra members parading into the school. I listened as my director asked one of the people running the competition if there were any bassoonists that might be willing to part with a reed for a few dollars, but the man just shook his head and told her that the bassoonists who had been in the building were probably already on their way to the nearby amusement park, Cedar Point.

         She nodded her thanks to the man for his help, and looked at me before she led us into the practice room, her eyes filled with sympathy. The mother of one of the string bass players noticed that something was wrong as I passed her, and before I could take my place among the Orchestra, she asked me what had happened. I told her that I had forgotten my reeds, and there weren’t any bassoonists in the building, which meant that I couldn’t compete because I couldn’t find anyone who would be willing to sell me a reed.

         The mother told me to sit down, and then she went to search the buses in the parking lot for someone who might have a reed I could use in the competition. I took my seat, and as the rest of the ensemble started to play, I silently followed the music with my eyes and went through the fingerings of the warm up piece on my mute bassoon.

         After the first few measures, I felt the lump in my throat grow too large for me to handle, and my eyes brimmed over with tears. I couldn’t believe that I had forgotten my reeds; not only was I letting down myself and the Orchestra, but worst of all, I had let down the director whom I deeply respected and cared for. As the rest of the Orchestra continued playing, I silently wept, unable to bear the shame and embarrassment that I had brought upon myself.

         The Orchestra director saw the tears running down my face, and she ordered the rest of the Orchestra to continue playing while I approached her. She gave me a hug and told me not to cry, because everything would be all right and that we’d find someone with a spare bassoon reed that I could use. I wiped the tears away with the back of my hand, and as I started to return to my seat, I saw mother of the string bass player return, a triumphant expression on her face. She was carrying a bassoon reed carefully in one hand, and as she handed it to me, she said, “I found a bassoonist on one of the buses, and I told her that our bassoonist had forgotten her reeds and wouldn’t be able to play. The bassoonist gave me one of her spare reeds, and she promised that there were no germs on it because she’s never used it before.”

          I couldn’t believe it. Just when every had been going absolutely wrong, some bassoonist that I had never even met before made everything alright by giving me one of her spare reeds. I mentally thanked God for this stranger’s generosity, and I sat down and examined the reed. It was battered and chipped, and it tasted old and musty, but it was playable, and I placed it on the bocal and joined in with the Orchestra as they finished the last few notes of the warm up piece. Some of my fellow instrumentalists clapped, for they understood how tortuous it was to have an instrument that they couldn’t play because they didn’t have a reed, and they were happy that my ordeal was over. Before we could start rehearsing our next piece, a volunteer workers came in and told the director that it was our turn to compete. I sighed, for I had hoped to have more time to become accustomed to my new reed, but I was lucky enough to have a reed, and I wasn’t going to push my luck by asking for anything more than that. Our Orchestra ensemble competed in a gymnasium with the worst acoustics ever, but we managed to take home an “Excellent” rating and we received several compliments on our performance.

         Without the understanding and generosity of the bassoonist who gave me one of her spare reeds, I would never have been able to play in that competition. Even though I know nothing about her, I hope that I can meet her one day so that I can tell her how her unexpected generosity brightened my day when everything seemed to be going wrong.