Souvenir

I have never played a musical instrument. The closest I ever came was having Santa bestow upon me a guitar one Christmas. Stunned, I gave that guitar a wide berth, unclear on why, exactly, I had been selected as the recipient of an unknown commodity such as this. Sure, I played a mean air guitar, but still, sheesh.

With carrying case

Eventually, I decided to invest an hour or so in leaning to play it, and when that worked out the way one might have predicted, I gave it up. As I explained to Mama, “I think Santa got confused this year.” I was twelve.

Fast forward to two years ago at my first Reggae on the River, when HeadSodBuster gave me some ducats to go out and do a little souvenir-shopping. Clutching my loot I took advantage of it by circumnavigating the vendor area, researching, always researching, taking notes even.

So many choices. I ended up with the usual: a few tee-shirts, a piece of Meadow's art and a bong that I never use, but what I wanted most I saw in a shop with about a hundred drums in it. There were all shapes and sizes, with some being brand-new and pristine, while others showed much use. I ogled and I drooled, but left empty-handed. 

It's nice to see friends at ROTR. Meadow had
some of her art and I bought this one.

In navigating the venue this year, I was disappointed to notice that the drum vendor was no longer at ROTR. There was one booth which had, maybe, a half-dozen drums, almost all the same size, but that was the extent of it. 

Still, I only wanted one.

When I had talked to HeadSodBuster, earlier Saturday afternoon, he had hinted strongly that he thought it was time that we went out and did some souvenir-shopping. I protested that I did not have the pecuniary measures required, but he insisted that we at least go see what was available. I should not worry about $'s.

I had marked the spot of the drum "hoard," carefully on the map within my fragmented brain, so I was able to lead HSBuster back to the booth without problem. Auntie was out front, a short woman with a round face and beaming smile. She was bustling around, shifting this item here, organizing that display over there.

Though neither HSBuster nor I said a word, the matronly woman made eye contact with me, and said, in a low voice, “So, a drum, huh?” She moved past me, a knowing smile on her face. HeadSodBuster was a man on a mission and did not hear the comment.

On-stage drum

I looked at her in surprise. How did she know we were looking for a drum? Still doubtful that I could actually find the perfect one, out of a field of merely six, I watched HSBuster zero in one unit immediately. He examined it closely, seated himself in an opportunely positioned chair, and let his hands flutter lightly over the surface of the drum, nodding imperceptibly as he did.

“What do you think?” I inquired.

“I like it,” he replied simply. “I think we should get it, along with a carrying case.”

Not one to argue with a great success, I nonetheless reeled at the spontaneous nature of this whole transaction. The instrument is incredibly beautiful and well-crafted; it is also deceivingly heavy, being made from teak. I only hope I can do justice to it. After pounding on everything from my knees, to books, to the dashboard in whatever vehicle we were driving in for the past 20-some years, I was ready to make it official. 

Am I prepared to jam yet with other musicians? Not hardly, but I am having a lot of fun, notwithstanding. “In A Gadda Da Vida” never sounded so good…

As we left the drum booth, I still was curious about the matronly woman’s comment, “So, a drum, huh?” As HSBuster was taking care of the logistics, I went back out front of the booth and asked her how she had known we were after a drum.

“I saw it in his eyes,” she explained simply.

HeadSodBuster showing me that the drum works.

Vendors' booths line the bowl.