Paul Bunyan Returns

I met her when I was fifteen, and she was formidable. Dressed darkly, silver hair cut in a bowl-shaped fashion, big feet, a slow, wide, thinking smile behind which she hid herself. I was an oboist of five years, timid, lazy, full of complaints about my oboe teacher, and Sue was another option in the area. I don't know if it was the command to put my cold oboe in my armpit to warm it up, or the pointing out that I shouldn't use my own spittle but water to wet my reed, or if was the strong eyebrows convincing me to play more confidently, followed by the calm and dimpled smile. I had a lesson from her once.

My butterflyish oboe teacher did not become more beloved to me after my experience with Sue, but I was certainly more grateful and spent a little bit more time on my scales and silly oboe exercises, waiting for the times when she would challenge me with real music. And then I found the Windham Orchestra, an hour away, to which my patient parents agreed to drive me--a real orchestra, with me as the second oboist. The music was hard. And I discovered the first night that I would have a solo. And I loved it. And I was delighted with Handel's firework music, calling for three oboes, and with Dvorak's 8th Symphony, calling for an English Horn. And I wondered who could possibly be the English Hornist, and who would end up being the additional oboist. I was expecting some night to meet another flitterer like my teacher, or a spry chap like Zeke, the first chair, his long white hair flying and his stature proudly standing about an inch shorter than me.

When I felt a presence next to me that night, of course I looked up, expecting by the feel of darkness and height to see a man. And when I had, I wished I hadn't. I wanted to shrink. It was Sue towering there, the same , slow smile stretching out her face as she recognized me and took her seat next to me as English Hornist and as third oboist.

She was still formidable. All she needed was an axe slung over her stout shoulder and a California Redwood rooted in defiance before her. But her solemn solos began to charm me. She was the first English Hornist I had met, and my fascination with her eerie tone gradually melted away her darkness. And when I learned that I had a solo two measures after hers ended and that I wouldn't have to count until then, she became an instant friend of mine. I marveled at her thick fingers maneuvering through the tricks of Handel, and I was amused at her bushy eyebrows going up and down with the lilting haunt of the English Horn and Dvorak.

I have not seen her in four years now, and had once again almost forgotten about Sue, the rebel oboist who had stolidly propped herself up next to me, her large and dependable embrasure making the big English Horn look small between her knees. I am a bit taller than I was then, definitely thicker, wearing dark pants and a gray shirt. Hair still light though, eyes still blue, feeling so small behind the new acquaintance of the big English Horn that I could perhaps hide behind it, except for my glowing red face and puffing cheeks. And then I saw her--Paul Bunyan, as my brother and I dubbed her--sitting there in the back of my head, her foot thumping inaudibly as the time for my solo came, her smile telling me to play more confidently, and her eyebrows going up and down for expression. Yes, Paul Bunyan has returned, just in time for the last couple rehearsals before the concert. And I hope she'll stick around.