I call myself a musician...

...but I rarely practice. Ask any professional, and he or she will tell you that twenty minutes to a half hour minimum is required to stay in shape. It's true whether you play brass, strings, or sing. Yet somehow I've managed to get by over the years and while I played every day in school, once I graduated college my playing was relegated to weekend gigs, much to my father's chagrin.

I am a Baritone Horn player, like my father before me. I started in the fourth grade, an eyeblink of twenty-one years ago. When my dad finished high school he stopped playing, and didn't start up again until decades later when my mom gave a horn to him for their first anniversary. I think he's always regretted the time he lost, and realizes he could have been a lot better if he stayed with it. He never missed a rehearsal, and my mom occasionally still brings up the fact that he went to one the night after I was born, while she was still in the hospital. Both he and my teachers were very good at keeping me on the path of practice, though I resisted in fourth and fifth grade. It wasn't until I started getting better, when it felt natural, that it became truly enjoyable to me.

Unlike my dad, I didn't stop playing after high school and in fact earned a half scholarship by playing in my university pep band. Getting into all the basketball games for free as well has cutting tuition costs in half truly made it all worth it. But, after college, when I started spending 40 or more hours a week in an office, I didn't feel like picking the instrument up outside of weekends. In my early twenties, this led to a lot of clashes with my dad who would eventually grumble that I was “going to sound like hell” on gigs and only embarrass myself. Yet in the regular season, from March to November, when I only played on weekends, I was still as strong as ever. Putting the horn away for a few months every Winter didn't damage me as much as my dad feared. I'd still remember all the songs, without reading music, and while my endurance was low the first few jobs I could still get most of the notes out, improving as the year went on. Would I be a lot better if I rehearsed every day? Absolutely. But, treating it as a hobby and a way to make some extra cash, and not as my career, I've reached a state of “good enough.” After a few years of seeing me in action after a few months of inactivity, my dad finally accepted that I could handle the time off.

Tomorrow will be the first official parade of the year, an early celebration of St. Patrick's Day out in Eastern Long Island. While my dad has mellowed about the subject, he's not immune to the occasional reminders and suggestions. Last weekend I heard: “Do you think you should practice? You haven't played since November. The valves might be sticking. Do you think you should play a few notes? Next week we're going to play. Are you going to be in shape? Are you listening?” Immaturely, I completely ignored things like this the first few times and pretended not to hear, but that only led to the 76- year-old repeating his inquiries. I knew I was taking a vacation day today, so I half agreed last weekend that I would in fact play a few notes. I wasn't sure at the time if I was going to keep that promise.

As I mentioned yesterday, we noticed a lump on my dad's shoulder the size of a golf or ping pong ball. It's been hurting him all week, but yesterday it was very noticeable even through a shirt. It looked fleshy and didn't seem cancerous to my untrained eye, but I advised him to see a doctor as soon as possible. He shrugged it off but after enough questions from me last night trying to diagnose it on the internet, perhaps he wondered if he should be concerned. Today I had planned to do some more shopping but when my parents announced that they were heading down the road to see a doctor, I knew it might be serious. My dad looked worried. Of course, before I even got up this morning, he had already done more work on the car of one of his deceased friends, and washed his own car. He just didn't use the bad arm as much. My dad doesn’t know how to rest.

Waiting when you don't know what will happen is a scary thing. I was sure it was just some buildup of fluid or cartilage, perhaps leaked from a fracture, and nothing that couldn't be drained or removed easily. As one hour bled into a second, I needed something to distract me, and the next thing I knew I was belting out various Italian and Irish tunes. Twenty minutes in to my rehearsal, I heard a key in the door as my folks finally returned. It wasn't cancer, simply some fat deposit that prescribed antibiotics might take care of, but if it returned would require minor surgery. I was relieved to know that he was going to be all right, and he was relieved to hear I could still play. For his benefit, I continued on for another twenty minutes before I left to go shopping and when I finished, he went downstairs to practice as well. After the lapse in his youth, he's stuck with it every day for over thirty years. Someday, I hope I have that kind of time and dedication.