More me as a kid

Rexburg, Idaho is a cold place. In the height of summer, a cool wind blows down from the Teton Mountains, rolling sagebrush across the highway on the edge of the town. In the winter, the world freezes for months at a time. The snowplow pushed snow out of the street in a haphazard manner, blocking driveways and crosswalks. Drifts from the cleared streets would pile on the side of the roads, growing steadily taller through the winter months. At the height of the frozen season, we would chip steps into the side of these peaks, and climb to the top. We would walk down their summits, from one end of my dead-end street to the other, high above the mailboxes and car roofs. One misstep meant tumbling down the side, to an icy landing at the bottom.

School was three blocks away, and I was usually dressed for the weather in whatever coat fit me that year. On days when I couldn't find a pair of matching socks in the laundry basket, I went without, and my shoes had a few cracks and holes. Icy water seeped under the arches of my feet, and I knew that I had to endure that painful frigid feeling until I could make it home. My fingers would ache. My nose would alternate between numb and sore. Two more blocks to go. The crossing guard lingered to chat before shuttling us across busy Main street. By the time I reached the top of my street, I could feel the salty tears stinging my eyes and draining down into my nose. The wet streaks would freeze. No relief, even in crying. When I got home, I'd run to the basement to see if a fire was lit in the black stove. If there was, I'd squeeze my wet sock and mittens and let the water drip onto the hot surface. It was shudder and boil in a gratifying way. I'd turn on Brady Bunch, point my toes toward the stove, and thaw until my mom called us up for music practice.

I carried a cello to school some days. What possessed me to take cello lessons, I do not know. I disliked piano lessons before cello was even an option. Cellos are big and are heavy for a skinny kid. I grabbed the handle, swung my arm around the tall neck, and crooked the top scroll under my neck to keep it upright as I walked. It banged against my leg and made my fingers go numb from the weight. My mom bought me a luggage carrier to strap it to, but it did no good on snowy days. The little wheels couldn't make it over even the smallest slush-piles. I envied the flute players with their little black cases. And I once saw a piccolo player tuck her instrument, case and all, in a three-ring binder.

Mr. Hansen, the Orchestra teacher was one of the only teachers I loved with my whole heart. I was horrible on the cello, and he didn't care. He was kind, funny, and welcoming. He was even inspiring. I tried to excel, then when I made no progress, I didn't try. My older sister did well in orchestra, and I wanted to continue the family tradition. It wasn't until I was older that my mom finally discovered the reason I couldn't read sheet music was astigmatism. The lines seemed to criss-cross, and I couldn't identify on which line that little black dot was perched. Piano was the same … I never progressed. Of all my siblings who my mother force-marched through music lessons for our entire childhood, I was the only one she allowed to quit cold turkey.

Ironically, I loved music, and I loved the idea of creating music. I just didn't have the talent. It didn't phase me much. I still knew I was smart. That was my niche. Wearing glasses only reinforced that role.

*Note ... the above photo is a bad illustration of this snippet. It was taken in Mauritius, where it has never snowed. 75-80 degrees year-round. Also, I'm not wearing glasses because I "accidentally" broke my odious glasses the day before we left for this year-long adventure. That is me on the right. We are wearing uniforms because we attended a Catholic girls' school while we were there.