Our relationship started in fifth grade. With the sounds of early 80’s rock instrumental solos ringing in my ears, the choice seemed clear. I found myself carrying, practicing, playing, and marching with a sax nearly every day until I graduated high school. I would continue playing it on occasion for several more years. These days, it is a rare event. I am rusty. My fingers remember most of the placements. My ear still knows when things are right, but sight-reading, transposition, and key adjustments on the fly are a thing of the past. My faithful, curvy beauty finds herself resting in a closet, waiting for random encounters.
I often get the urge to break out the sax. When I do, I am quickly reminded why daily practice was so important. It is frustrating. Given time, I have no doubt I could work my way to being better than ever. Time simply isn’t as much of an option for me as it was in my younger days. Still, I feel I should make time again.
We both had a few years on us when we met. Now, many years later, we’re both showing some age. We’ve both had parts broken. Our patina has changed. There is far less shine than there once was. Refurbishing has been a piece of both of our stories. With some loving care, we’ve both got many years ahead. Perhaps there is still time for a little shared music.
Occasionally, I think about springing for a new instrument, preferably that tenor saxophone I always hoped to play someday. Knowing how little chance I have to play, though, I talk myself out of it. Besides, I’d hate to hurt the old girl’s feelings. While taking these photos, I briefly considered playing a few notes. Not today. Perhaps another time?
