I’d like to tell y’all a story, and tend to be long winded. So please be patient with my ramblings.
So, I’m getting ready to go on the road for a couple of months, and was cleaning trumpets (yes Donny, I clean them) I haven’t taken my father’s trumpet on the road in many years. Its an early 60’s King Silver Flair, and well… it has seen its better days, and I’d rather preserve it than beat it into retirement. But, I do take it out and clean it from time to time, to keep the silver shiny. Now the King Case I have not used in a couple of decades. The latches don’t work, its tattered and not very sturdy.It has lived in the back of a closet empty for EVER. But about a year ago the Da Carbo case was rendered unusable, so I quickly placed my dad’s horn back into its original case in a speedy game of shuffle trumpets, and didn’t even give it a glance.
So back to today, I pull the old girl out to clean her; New Orleans ironically (and egotistically) blaring on my stereo, my mind wandering to places id rather be… as it tends to do when I’m alone in busy thought. As the case passes through the sunshine smiling through my window, I notice that there is a fleur-de-lis permanently etched into the case. It’s like the leather has been rubbed raw. Now I promise you that this mark is not of my doing. I’ve been in possession of this horn since my father took ill in 1975, and I swear that I have never noticed this before, and do not believe it has ever been there.
So I sat and smiled, and audibly muttered “yeah, I know. I’m workin’ on it OK” I laughed at myself for engaging orally with my father, New Orleans, my soul… whomever was listening and I muttered it again. “yeah, I know’
Carry On…

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