I went upstairs at ten the other night, book tucked under my arm, relishing the thought of a good eight hour sleep, maybe even nine. The house was clean and organized and locked up tight. There were new sheets on the bed, smooth and cool. Fresh sweet air wafted through the screens. I grinned at the bed as I put my book and water glass on the bedside table and went in to wash my face.
Morning sounds: A cacophony of roosters. A clatter of plates across the street. Sweeping. An old pick-up truck starting, grudgingly. Chickens scolding scurrying chicks. A vegetable vendor announcing his wares. The music and call of the gas truck. The skritch of a rake. A woman’s voice on the loudspeaker from the elementary school.
As is my habit, I stepped out onto the bedroom veranda before I climbed into bed. It was relatively quiet, the stars clear and three-dimensional in the black sky. I noticed several cars pulling up on the road below, half a block or so toward the beach. I could see people standing around under a streetlight. They looked to be youngsters, from their body language and the way they bounced around.
At first, I thought they were holding flashlights, maybe even sparklers, from the glints of light that flashed now and then as they moved about. Then a large shape came clear: tuba. Once I noticed that, I could see that the glimmers and glints came from trumpets, too, and other shiny things held. The Banda. Our own San Pancho brass band.
Afternoon sounds: The soft clatter of palm fronds stirred by breeze. Hollow thump of an old door blowing shut upstairs. A lone rooster, inquiring. Music drifting up from the village. Parrots chattering as they whoosh past. The clop of horses' hooves on cobbles. Birds, birds, and more birds.
We are proud, in a cringing sort of way, of our band. It’s made up of teenage boys from the pueblo who would possibly be getting into all kinds of trouble if they weren’t showing up every day of the week to practice. I’ve spoken with some of them. They dream dreams of being famous musicians, of having their band known far and wide, all over Mexico and maybe even other places.
Everyone who lives anywhere near the house where they practice is familiar with the endless monotonal toot-toot-toot of the beginning trumpeters. We witnessed the first weeks. Very early on, the band started playing around town for a pittance, that pittance going into a fund to hire professional teachers now and then. Kindly relatives and village neighbors would hire them for a tradition of playing at dawn in front of the house of a birthday celebrant. We’ve all been treated to the clamor of the baby band at ungodly hours.
Over the past year and a half or so, they’ve certainly improved. That said, when I told Jesse that I was thinking I should hire them for a housewarming party, he said, “That’s a great idea. Just be sure they’re gone before your guests arrive.”
What, I wondered in dismay, were they doing convening at the foot of the hill at 10:15 p.m.?
Evening sounds: From the polo field, strains of Latin jazz punctuated by the strange yowl of the peacock. Sharp commands and the occasional blast of a whistle from the soccer field. Children yelling and laughing. Roosters bragging. Dogs barking across the street. Crickets starting up. Sweeping. Cries of birds returning to treetops. Trucks rumbling past on cobbled roads. A truck’s air brakes as it drops past on the highway.
I got into bed and opened my book, still harboring weakening fantasies of drowsing over a few pages and falling into happy slumber. Then the tuba started. It always goes first. It really does say, “oompah oompah”. Eventually, with immense and ragged exuberance, the remaining instruments joined in. I don’t know the songs. They all sound the same to me. Except one of them, this time, had a lengthy drum solo in the middle and all around the edges. The drummer enjoys his work.
Not knowing how long they would play, I clung to hope that each song was the last. It wasn't. I guess they were playing for someone’s anniversary or something. Given the volume level, they could’ve been in my closet. I just kept reading, although I did have to re-read several pages when my concentration was pummeled by a particularly spirited arrangement. They played for an hour, exactly. Until 11:30 p.m.
Night sounds: Ranchero music blaring from cars passing on Avenida Tercer Mundo. Women laughing. Crickets and night bugs, louder. Dogs barking in the distance. Roosters, yet unsleepy. Waves pounding the beach.
Finally, they stopped, emitting only a few self-satisfied tootles and honks as they were packing back into their vehicles. I heard car doors slamming. I put my book down and turned off the light. Pretty soon, the neighborhood dogs stopped barking at the car doors slamming. The wind shifted slightly, the snarl of air brakes on the highway fading. Then I could hear the waves, which have been wondrously loud lately, driven by the north wind. I tuned in to that sound, that lovely perpetual sound, grateful to be able to hear it at last.
I drifted off to sleep making innocent plans for tomorrow afternoon's siesta.
☺ ☺ ☺
Our fine San Pancho banda, rehearsing ~
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