I was a member of a brass band club in my high school. Every
summer we had a brass band contest which was the largest one in
the year. Last year we aimed for the gold prize, so we rehearsed
over and over again during summer vacation. We chose Japanese
piece called "Mask Fantasy" for the contest. The music made me
imagine scenes in Japanese myths. Perhaps it was because we used
many drums, like a bass drum, congas and bongos in the music, and
that made the music enthusiastic and beautiful. It was hard for
us to make the music more meanings and to keep the rhythm.
In this way we prepared for the contest, but an accident which
we could not avoid by our effort happened and messed up our
plan.
The day came. It was a sultry and breathless day, and the sky
was white. Everyone seemed to be terribly strained in the
morning. We wore our school uniforms, which perhaps had been
taken to the cleaners the day before. Girls' hair was braided and
adorned with colorful ribbons. We chuckled meaninglessly; in
other words, we were in the atmosphere of the special day.
There were seven percussion players (including me) in my club,
but they took much time to prepare for moving to the contest
hall, because we all had to take our instruments apart, pack them
into cardboard boxes, and load them into a truck. We got to the
hall about 5 p.m. Our turn was scheduled for 7 p.m. Only the
percussion players came around to the back door of the hall where
we would carry our instruments into the hall, and waited for our
truck. But our truck did not come for a long time. Boys went to
the national highway and the parking lot to search for our truck,
but 'they couldn't find it. Gradually we became irritated, paced
around and swore at the truck driver.
Finally, about 6:45 p.m., the truck appeared before us.
Momentarily we gave a sigh of relief, but there was still a big
danger. The time which was left for us to unpack and appear on
the stage was only fifteen minutes. At once we began to prepare
our instruments in a state of confusion. We felt like giving
up.
"Excuse me," someone said suddenly from behind. It was a
pretty, birdlike voice.
"What?" we turned irritably. Five percussionists, who would
play after us, stood there. They were all girls. The tallest
girl, who seemed to be their leader, told us that they had
already finished their preparation, so they could help us. We
gazed at them in surprise. They smiled. Of course, we accepted
their offering gladly.
We resumed our preparation with them. They carried the
cardboard boxes down from the truck and unpacked. We put the
parts of the instruments together and tightened screws and
adjusted the height of the instruments. While we were tuning our
drums and keyboard instruments, the girls cleared the area around
us. After that we carried our instruments to the right side of
the wings. Surely we were pressed in spite of their help, but
could afford to smile at each other. And we were in time for our
turn.
I remember how useful their help was, not only for being on
time for our turn but, also for our playing. If it had not been
for their help, we could not have played with all our might
because of being upset. I could not ask their names and thank
them directly, but I am still grateful for their encouragement
which was not by words, but by action.
by Toshie Hisanaka
