THE TUBA

I will never quite fathom why middle grandson Pace decided on the tuba as his instrument of choice. It’s large, unwieldy, definitely not sexy (Ed. Note--Though Pace believes it is), and nothing you can casually offer to play at parties.

“Oh, sure, I play an instrument. I know I left it somewhere around here, perhaps in the back of the pickup. Couple you guys want to help me carry it in?” By the time that thing is toted in and unpacked, the people with guitars, flutes and tambourines have taken over the show.

Youngest grandson Dallin, on the other hand, chose saxophone, considered the sexiest musical instrument, and definitely portable. He’s always at the ready for an impromptu performance at a party, cruise ship talent show, or dude ranch karaoke.

Because a tuba is a major expense--we’re talking thousands of dollars here--the school rents them to the students. Hard to believe, but there is more than one tuba player in the school, and the school can’t buy enough to go around, so no one is allowed to keep one at home to practice. Keeping an eye on the higher goal here, which is a college scholarship, it’s imperative that Pace be able to put more time in at home practicing and taking advanced lessons.

The band teacher, Mr. Green, found a tuba being offered on eBay, and said it looked like a promising prospect. I had never bought a thing through eBay and felt it had all the appeal of Russian Roulette, but I asked Older Daughter to take care of it for me, since she not only had a good track record with eBay, she seemed to know what she was doing.

I checked out the photo and the listing on eBay and, not being much of a judge of instruments--no judge at all, actually--I made a close examination of the photo and decided it certainly was a tuba. The seller didn’t promise much, but had provided helpful arrows pointed at dents in the horn. Had to admire his forthrightness.

I was thrilled when we were the winner in the bidding contest and for less than $1,000.00, with the shipping and handling. New tubas can easily cost much more than that, the operative word here being “new.” I waited anxiously for the delivery of the precious instrument. The seller said it would be arriving in two boxes, which struck me as odd, but what did I know. Apparently, some assembly was going to be required.

When the boxes arrived, my daughter and I tore into them eagerly, tossing Styrofoam peanuts all over the place. And nearly threw up. Inside were two parts of what had to be the world’s most beat-up tuba.

Assembled, it looked no better. There was not one square inch of that abomination that was not scarred, scratched, dented, or corroded. The little arrows on the photo were teasers, a hint of the disaster that was tuba. My daughter rushed to her computer and checked the listing. Not a word about refunds or guaranteed satisfaction.

I was sick. This disgrace to the tuba world looked as if it had been taken by train to the top of Pike’s Peak and thrown down the mountain from the caboose--several times. I sensed I would have no recourse with the seller, who not only had made no promises, but had obligingly provided that photo with arrows pointing at the worst dents.

I called a friend, who has raised five musical children, several of them professionals, confident she could tell me the value of a beat up tuba and perhaps give me some considered advice and reassurance. She never let me finish my sentence, but started screaming, “Nine hundred dollars? You paid $900? $900? On Ebay? I don’t believe it. You paid $900 on Ebay? I would NEVER buy anything on Ebay! $900? Ebay? $900? Humiliated, I hung up.

Now I was not only sick, but panicked. Before I fell completely apart, I decided I should find out what Mr. Green the music teacher would have to say. I hoped he might even buy the tuba from me in an attack of pity mixed with guilt.

First, I took the tuba to Pace to see if it was even playable. He didn’t flinch at the sight of it and pronounced it all right, except for a sticking key. What did a fourteen-year-old kid know? Pace’s mother, April, with the same voice she would have used in trying to be kind to the mother of a baby who looked like E.T., said, “Maybe he can play it inside the house--back in his bedroom.”

She made an appointment to go see Mr. Green for an after-school evaluation. I told her to be tactful, since I didn’t want any accusations resulting in a lowered band grade. I waited anxiously at home for a promised phone call after the meeting, a call which never came.

Unable to wait any longer, I called April, who reported the meeting was over, which had included one of Mr. Green’s former students, a brilliant tuba player now in high school. “Tell me quickly,” I said. “Don’t prolong the agony.”

I couldn’t believe it. The tuba was a treasure among tubas. Even though its serial number revealed it was a 1971 Mirafone, not only was it worth several times what I had paid for it, according to Mr. Green, but his former student said it had the most velvety, mellow sound he had ever heard. I guess beauty really is only skin deep.

Euphoric, I hung up the phone and called my friend with the musical children.

The tuba did need some minor repairs and a tune up, along with a custom made soft carrying case, since no modern cases were available. At Mr. Green’s urging, I drove to Anaheim, in the next county, to have it serviced. By this time, I reveled in telling my story to anyone who would listen. The technician at the music store wasn’t overly impressed, but enjoyed my reaction when he turned the instrument upside down on and banged it on the counter, dislodging several sizable dust bunnies.

“Hey, you said it had a fuzzy sound,” he said.

“Not fuzzy,” I protested. “Velvety. Velvety.” “

This is nothing,” he said. “I found a dead bat in one once.”

Two hundred dollars later, I retrieved a serviced tuba which looked no better that it had originally, but at least the worst dents were gone and it could be hidden in a nice new soft case.

Pace seems pleased with his instrument. He’s a mellow kid, just like his tuba, and doesn’t get overly excited about much, so ownership of a tuba that looks like it survived a national disaster is no big deal to him. In fact, his friends think this monstrosity is cool. And besides, he can hit notes on this one that he can’t hit on the school tuba.

It was a proud moment when we went to the first concert where Pace played his old, yet valuable, tuba. There were four tubas in the band, and his was easy to spot, distinguished by being the only one with the bell facing forward, while the others pointed skyward.

It became obvious why modern bells point upward, when we watched Pace’s horn blast the musicians in the rows in front of him, where his unfortunate, and now deafened, brother sat, playing the saxophone.

I guess the most important lesson learned here was, that you should never judge a book by its cover, nor a tuba by its scars.