Teaching Tales

The Teacher and the Trumpet

A teacher's role involves more than teaching.

The Teacher and the Trumpet

         The telephone rang just as I was getting out of the shower. I was pretty sure it was Maria calling again. Every night she needed my help. What she really wanted, was someone with whom to practice English.

         "Mrs. Tutley," I said, holding the phone against my mouth as I juggled the towel to keep from dropping it. My husband mimicked interest in the situation. His eyebrows wiggled up and down, and he pretended to give me a wolf whistle. I smiled, but I knew he was busy working on a legal case. There wouldn't be any hanky panky between us that night, or any other until his brief was done.

         I'd been right. Maria's lilting voice came over the line. "Is mi hermano," she said. "He need a trumpet for to have lessons. We no have money for trumpet. What I do?"

         Maria was one of my senior composition students. She wrote brilliantly -- in Spanish. I was trying to help her transition into English, but her vocabulary was very limited. And, when she was upset about something, her sentences sounded even worse.

         It took me awhile before I had her calmed down enough to understand the trumpet part.

         "Mi hermano, my brother Pablo, he need the trumpet because he want to play in the band."

         "Does he know how to play a trumpet?" I asked, teasing my husband, Charlie, with little bits of flashing towel.

         Charlie growled and went back to his brief, but his eyes continued to watch me more than the paper he was holding in his hand.

         I turned away, even though the look in his eyes was quite delightful.

         "Is good with trumpet. But mi padre, my father, he sold it."

         "He sold Pablo's trumpet?"

         "He have no money. My sister Juana need the medicine. Pues..."

         "I see. I will do what I can to find a trumpet that Pablo can use. Now, did you write the essay for class tomorrow?"

         "Si, Mrs. Tutley. I finish."

         I hung up the phone about twenty minutes later. Maria had needed to talk again. This time she had told me about her history teacher, Mr. Carette, who was flunking her because she could not understand the questions he asked.

         I jotted a note to myself: trumpet, Mr. Carette.

         I blew a kiss to my husband and trotted off to bed. As usual I had papers to correct, and I preferred the comfort of warm blankets.

         The next day was Thursday -- always a busy day at Hoover High School. Still, I took time to check with the band leader - no trumpets, and talked with Mr. Carette - no understanding.

         My students handed me another batch of essays, three sets of tests, one workbook page, and an assortment of catch-up papers from so many different assignments, it made my head spin. A typical day.

         After school I stopped in for a visit with the local music store. They wanted $50 a month for a trumpet. The pawn shop had a good trumpet for $249. I thought about asking Charlie, but he'd already donated to my "making a difference" campaign last month.

         The church was my next stop, but Father Matthew hadn't forgotten that I'd talked him into helping the cheerleaders pay for their new uniforms three months ago. He shook his head, firm in his "no."

         My parents were vacationing in the Bahamas. Aunt Mildred had retired and no longer had any funds to help with, my brother was saving for a new computer, and my bank account had already been drained.

         By the time I had done my daily jog around the park, picked up groceries, and returned home to start dinner, my brain was whirling. But I was proud of myself for not mentioning it during dinner. Charlie didn't even seem to notice that I was engaged in one of my "fix-it sessions" as he called them. Usually he intuitively knew when I was fretting over one. Charlie has always been my personal white knight.

         That night Charlie's strong arms holding me close against his body did not put me to sleep. Yet, at some point I drifted off. Trumpets blared throughout my dreams.

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         Fridays are my favorite day at school. Homeroom is flipped, and the day speeds by with its topsy-turvy nature. Not only the students, but many of the teachers seem frantic with the difference. At lunch, I sat with Frank Carette. He seemed eager to tell me how confusing it all was. I listened and smiled.

         After school we had a short meeting about testing. The state had given us the new and improved revisions. Little had changed, but we were required to watch a short movie about it.

         Frank sat next to me. He joked about the state's asinine requirements, and I agreed. We exchanged smiles. When Frank walked out to the parking lot, strangely trumpets just kind of slipped off my tongue, and before I knew it, I was telling him all about Maria's brother.

         Charlie says that I'm a "walking miracle." He is right; fate does smile a lot on my activities. Frank's brother had an old trumpet he no longer used, and Frank said Pablo could have it.

         Of course, that led to an explanation about Maria's phone calls and the story of how she and Pablo had come to the United States.

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         The weekend and the weeks that followed sped by like express trains. Pablo got his trumpet, and good old Frank didn't fail Maria after all; he started tutoring her after school.

         I waited for Charlie's case to conclude before I told him all about the trumpet and Maria's history class. When I did, he laughed and once again called me his "walking miracle." Then he asked me if I'd wear the towel for him. Of course, I agreed, and on the way to get it, I made sure to disconnect the phone.


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