Melba's Slide Trombone

s Slide Trombone

  An Anytime story for children

  by Michael Wenberg

  Copyright 2011 Michael C. Wenberg

  www.michaelwenberg.com

  Melba’s Slide Trombone

  An Anytime story for children

  by Michael Wenberg

  “You’re arm still ain’t long enough,” Melba’s grandpa said with a shake of his head.

  “Are you sure?” Melba pushed away from the dinner table, stretched out her right arm and gave it a look like it was in big trouble.

  “It has to be longer—” he reminded her.

  “—before I’m big enough to start playing the trombone,” Melba finished with a sigh. She picked up her fork and began hunting down the remaining peas on her plate. Instead of eating them, she squished them one by one.

  Melba had always wanted to play the slide trombone.

  She loved the way it was shaped, with twists and turns and curves just like her favorite roller coaster.

  She loved the way it looked, as bright and shiny as her grandpa’s old car.

  Most of all, she loved the way it could sound, sad and lonely as a foghorn on a foggy day, or as happy as a pack of hyenas laughing at a joke.

  But lately, she had begun to fear she would never, ever be big enough to play the trombone.

  "Is that child still going on about that overgrown excuse for a kazoo?” Melba’s grandma said as she breezed in from the kitchen. She set a big yellow cake covered in chocolate frosting in the center of the table.

  “It’s called a trombone, dear,” Melba’s grandpa said.

  Melba’s grandma rolled her eyes and hrumphed with disdain. “I thought we had all this trombone nonsense settled during her last visit. My goodness, trombones today, what’s it going to be tomorrow? Ice cream for breakfast? Her own bedroom?”

  “Nothing wrong with grand wishes,” Melba’s grandpa remarked under his breath. “In fact,” he continued more loudly, “I’m wishing for a piece of that grand-looking yellow cake right this moment. Are you going to yackety-yak or cut?”

  “My Melba’s going to play something else, aren’t you sweetie,” Melba’s grandma cooed as she sliced into the cake. “We had it all decided last time. Your sister plays the violin. Your mother played the flute. I play the piano. All fine and proper musical instruments for a young girl. Don’t you agree?”

  Melba squished the last pea on her plate. Without looking up, she said in a soft but firm voice, “I’m going to play the trombone.”

  Melba’ grandma pointed the chocolate frosting-covered finger in Melba’s direction. “Now see here, young lady, you’ll do…”

  “For goodness sakes,” Melba’s grandpa interrupted, “I thought we all agreed to let her choose!”

  Melba’s grandma glared at her husband. “Maybe so,” she said, “but once this trombone nonsense is out of her system, I’m going to make sure she takes up a proper musical instrument.”

  Melba clenched her hands under the table. “We’ll see about that,” she muttered.

  “What was that?” echoed Melba’s older sister, Grace. She had been quietly taking it all in from her seat next to their grandma.

  “Please pass the peas,” Melba said with a thin smile.

  The next morning, Melba pulled a worn, rectangular-shaped case out of the back of the closet and dragged it into the living room.

  “Whatcha doing?” her grandpa asked without glancing up from his newspaper.

  Melba didn’t say a word. She flipped the latches, and opened the case. Inside, gleaming like ancient treasure was her grandpa’s old slide trombone. She touched the bright, gold-colored metal lightly with her fingers, imagining how wonderful it would be when she was playing music—jazz music—just like her grandpa.

  “Need a hand?”

  Melba shook her head. She fit the bell and the slide together, and then twisted the mouthpiece in place. When she was done, she propped the trombone on her shoulder, grasped the slide, and stretched out her arm. “How much more do I have to grow before I can play all the notes? I just gotta know.”

  Melba’s grandpa lowered his paper, and squinted over his reading glasses. “Hmmmm. I’d guestimate about three inches. Maybe four.”

  Melba frowned. “That’s more than I thought—”

  “Nature has to take her course,” her grandpa remarked.

  “Well, maybe it’s time I give nature a little shove,” Melba said with an angry stomp of her foot.

  She put the trombone back in its case and hurried out the front door.

  “What in the world are you doing with that?” Melba’s grandma asked a few hours later, glancing up from the bowl of fresh green beans she and Grace were snapping in kitchen.

  “With what?” Melba replied.

  “That big red brick in your hand.”

  “Oh, that,” Melba said as if she was noticing it for the first time, “I’m using it to stretch out my arm. All just need it to grow a few more inches.”

  “And why are you doing that?” her grandma said, her face twisting into a puzzled frown.

  “Because she’s a moron,” Grace said with a malicious laugh.

  Melba stuck out her tongue. “I got tired of waiting on her,” she said.

  Grace crossed her eyes and mouthed “moron.”

  “Her?” Melba’s grandma asked.

  “You know, her. . .” Melba said with a sneer. “Mother Nature.”

  “Of all the crazy—” Melba’s grandma gave her head a shake. “Just don’t drop it on the floor,” she said sharply.

  “But your toes are okay,” Grace added.

  Melba gave a fierce grin. “Don’t worry about me,” she said, and disappeared out the back door.

  “And make sure you clean that dirty thing off before you bring it back in the house!” her grandma yelled.

  Melba used a garden hose to spray off the brick, and Grace’s brand-new sweatshirt, that she found lying on top of the picnic table, to dry it off. She figured it served Grace right for calling her a “moron.”

  Melba carried that brick around the rest of the day.

  She carried it when she rode her bike.

  She carried it when she had a snack.

  She even carried it when she and Grace chased the chickens in the backyard.

  And when she was so tired she couldn’t hold it any longer, she asked Grace to tape it to her hand.

  “What a freak,” Grace said.

  But she did it anyway. Melba figured she still didn’t know about the sweatshirt.

  When Melba woke the next morning, for a brief moment she thought something was wrong with her right arm. Then she remembered and smiled.

  She hopped out of bed and ripped off the tape. The brick hit the floor with a thud. Her arm felt as limp as cooked spaghetti. That had to be a good sign, she thought.

  Melba paused in front of the mirror. One glance told her everything. Her arm was longer. She was certain of it.

  She dragged the battered case out of the closet, put the pieces of the trombone together, propped it on her shoulder, grasped the slide, and then stretched out her arm.

  “Grandpa?” she yelled.

  After a moment, he stuck his head out of the kitchen doorway.

  “Look,” she said breathlessly. “I did it. . .”

  “I’m sorry, pumpkin-eater,” Melba’s grandpa said with a shake of his head. “Your arm looks just as long as it was yesterday.”

  “But. . .but. . . I can’t wait any longer?” Melba cried.

  She fought back tears as she ran out the back door, past the chickens scratching in the dirt, all the way to field of grass behind the house. When she found a place where the grass was nearly shoulder high, s
he flopped onto her back. She stared up at the patches of blue peeking out from behind the big cotton-colored clouds that drifted across the sky.

  She wasn’t ready to give up. There had to be another way. But what else she could try?

  Of course, there was always Harry, her grandpa’s big, black Newfoundland. She wondered if clipping the leash to Harry’s collar, slipping the other end around her wrist, and then letting Harry drag her around the pasture for a day or two would help stretch out her arm?

  That cheered her up. She giggled as she imagined splashing through the mud puddles and body surfing over the grass.

  And what about eating more? Maybe that would help fertilize her arm?

  Melba imagined slurping through bowls of ice cream and mounds of quivering green jello, gnawing a chorus line of barbecued chicken legs and chomping down hamburger after hamburger. Unfortunately, she didn’t need a bigger tummy, she needed a longer arm.

  “Lunchtime,” came the distant call.

  Melba scrambled to her feet, wiped her eyes, and gave a ragged sigh. Maybe her grandma was right. Maybe she had it all wrong. Maybe the problem wasn’t with her size, maybe it was the trombone. Maybe the sensible thing to do would be to find something else to play, after all.

  Melba trudged back to the house.

  That afternoon, Melba settled into her grandpa’s chair, opened a book, and tried to take her mind off her troubles. She started reading about chimpanzees. They lived in Africa and in zoos. They were very smart. Melba stared at a photograph of a chimpanzee sticking a stalk of grass in a termite hole. Another one showed the chimpanzee pulling it back out, and then eating the termites clinging to the stalk.

  Just like a monkey Popsicle, she thought with a smile. And then she let out a gasp. Chimpanzees were smart. And they’d just shown her the perfect solution to her problem.

  Melba found her grandpa in the garage. He was polishing the big, black hood of his car. He wiped his forehead with the back of his sleeve.

  “Do you have any good sticks?” she asked

  “Out in the barn,” he replied. “Why?”

  But Melba had already disappeared.

  Early the next morning, Melba’s grandpa heard a strange noise in the hallway. He slipped out of bed, pulled on his robe, grabbed the baseball bat he kept hidden behind the dresser just in case, and then carefully opened the bedroom door.

  Instead of surprising a thief, he found Melba, sitting cross-legged on the floor. She was putting together that slide trombone.

  “Hi Grandpa.”

  “A bit early, aint’ it?”

  “I couldn’t wait any longer.”

  “What are you doing?”

  Melba opened a long cardboard box, and then pulled out a smooth, blonde-colored stick. She took a rubber band and hooked one end of the stick to the grip on the trombone slide. Then she hefted the trombone to her shoulder and grabbed the other end of the stick in her hand, looping her finger through a hole in the end. “Now I’m ready for one final check,” she said.

  Melba stretched out her arm, using the stick to extend her reach just like those chimpanzees in the book.

  “Will you look at that?” her grandpa exclaimed.

  “What’s all this commotion?” Melba’s grandma said as she shuffled out of the bedroom, her face puffy from sleep.

  “What’s the little twerp done now?” Grace snarled, rubbing her eyes and joining the group in the hallway.

  Melba ignored them both. “Well?” she said, looking hopefully up at her grandpa.

  “I think nature’s just been skunked,” her grandpa said, his eyes glittering with pride. He gave her a fierce hug. “I’m so proud of you, Melba.”

  “Well, I’ll be,” Melba’s grandma said with a yawn and a shake of her head. “I guess there’s no stopping her now. I’m going back to bed.”

  Grace stuck out her tongue and then slammed her door.

  “Did you hear them say anything about sleeping?” Melba’s grandpa whispered.

  “Nope,” Melba said with a giggle.

  “Then how about your first lesson?”

  A moment later, the soft, sleepy sounds of early morning were joined by something new—Melba blowing her first notes on the slide trombone.

  The End

  Melba Liston (1926 - 1999)

  Melba’s Slide Trombone is inspired by the gifted jazz trombonist, composer, arranger and occasional singer and actor, Melba Liston.

  Liston began playing the trombone at an early age. She was attracted to the trombone because she thought it was pretty. Even though she was too small to reach all the positions, she didn’t let size stop her from getting started. By the age of 16, she was playing in the Lincoln Theatre pit band. When the Lincoln closed, she joined the Gerald Wilson Band. At the time, jazz bands were almost exclusively made up of male musicians. Liston, however, excelled.

  Over the years, Liston played with many jazz greats including Dizzy Gillespie, Billie Holiday, Quincy Jones, Count Basie, Duke Ellington, Tony Bennett, and others. In 1973, she moved to Kingston, Jamaica. She taught at the University of the West Indies and was a director at the Jamaica School of Music.

  In later years, she collaborated with pianist and composer Randy Weston. Together they produced ten albums. Poor health ended her trombone playing, but she continued composing and arranging. She died on April 23rd, 1999.

  About the Author

  MICHAEL WENBERG lives just up the road from the Point No Point lighthouse on Washington State’s Puget Sound. In addition to working in technology, he’s the former CEO of the Walla Walla Symphony. He enjoys backpacking, hiking and kayaking the waters of Puget Sound with his wife, Sandy, and their dog, Gracie. He also plays the trombone.

  Discover other books by Michael Wenberg

  Connect with Michael Wenberg online

  You can find Wenberg online at www.michaelwenberg.com, or contact him at [email protected].