One morning, at the drummer’s house,
I awoke after a long, loud night, and looked around the small room. I pointed
to a tin thing on the mantlepiece, and said “What’s that?”.
“A cow bell”, answered drummer. (See, they’re not all monosyllabic)
I climbed over the bed, reached up to the mantle, grabbed that tin by it’s
handle, and gave a shake.
“It’s broken.” I said as I put it back down.*
I guess you could only describe the look he gave me as, “Fuck! I think I’ve
finally found someone who is actually more insane than I!”
I was given the opportunity to rectify this a little over the last 2 weekends,
with Doris, the mother of one of my charges. Doris has been African drumming for
many years, and is pretty amazing at it. But she’s also an amazing teacher
because I learnt things! I, who am so challenged with musical instruments! By
the end of the lesson, we – the group of beginners – were playing different
rythyms, in sync. It sounded great and felt great to learn something new, and
open up some new brain pathways on a Sunday morning.
I even got to play the cow bell.
Doris showing her style
* A cow bell, to me, is the huge thing on an equally huge
leather strap that hangs in my spare room. My folks bought it back from
Switzerland when I went there as a child – and it rings, really loudly,
whenever it is bumped, let alone ’rung’.
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