Trumpeteers

In preparation for our future horn-blowing careers in hunt service, we played the trumpet dutifully in middle school. Libby switched to playing flute after a year of trumpeting. But Sarah and I continued on. Mr. Snyder, the red-faced penguin of a man, directed our band lessons. Each week, my parents signed their names on the designated line, attesting to my trumpet practice at home. But my trumpet rarely left the school’s band room. Mr. Snyder never caught on. Instead, when angry at lesser instrumentalists, he used me as the paragon of trumpeteering: “why can’t you practice at home -- like Katie!?”