My daughter learned to play the oboe in junior high and stayed with it only until she was a freshman in high school.

She played with the band and we thought she was great.  And I guess you could say she was … for a junior high kid.

She always used the school’s oboe; we had told her that if she stayed with it through high school, we’d consider buying her one.  High school happened, and along with it, boys, drill team, and thousands of other distractions.  Her oboe-playing days had passed.

Or so we thought.

She is going to college now in Salzburg, Austria.  She discovered that she could take oboe lessons while there, and since she always regretted giving it up, she signed up.

Only problem was she had to bring an oboe.  Well, we found one on Ebay and had it refurbished.  We knew it wasn’t the finest one in the world, but it was good enough for someone who played at her skill level.  And heck, even lousy oboes are pretty dern expensive.  If she decided that this was something she would be doing for the rest of her life, we could talk about her maybe finding a better one in Europe.

She met with her instructor for the first time.

“Well, let’s decide when we can meet for a lesson,” he said.  “I play in Vienna on Friday and Saturday, then in Berlin next week.  Perhaps next Thursday?”

My daughter’s throat began to tighten.  This wasn’t some plan ole music teacher, that’s for sure.  She worked up enough courage to ask, “Who do you play for?”

“The Vienna Orchestra.  Now, did you bring your music with you?”

She about died.  “The Vienna Orchestra?!” she thought.  “He’s fabulous!  My instructor is a maestro with the Vienna Orchestra!  Does he think I’m really good?  He’s going to DIE when he hears me play.  And music?  What music?  The school fight song???”

“No, I didn’t bring my music.”

“Well, why don’t you just play for me?  Anything you happen to remember.”

“Anything?!” she said to herself.  “The scales?  The song we played at contest in 8th grade?  Oh, my.  This is going to be bad.”

She got the oboe out of the tattered brown case (taped together at the seams) and began to play some scales.  She was so nervous, her hands were shaking and she was having a hard time even breathing.

He asked to see her instrument.  “Is this yours?” he asked, looking pitifully at it, hoping he could blame her playing on the oboe.

She looked down at his oboe.  It was one of the world’s finest … probably close to $20,000.  She couldn’t bring herself to tell him we had bought hers on Ebay. 

“It belongs to a friend of a friend,” she managed to get out.  “I’m just using it until I have time to find a better one while I’m here.”  Well, sort of true.  But we all know that little white lies can get you into a heap of trouble.

“I’m glad you didn’t say you got it on Ebay or something,” he replied.  Ha-ha-ha.  “And when you begin to look, I’ll come with you!  I can help you pick out a good one.”

“Great,” she answered weakly.  “What have you gotten yourself into!?” she asked herself.

Well, she’s been into it for several lessons now and he’s figured out just how good she is (or isn’t).  But he’s still planning on going with her to find a new oboe. 

Oh, dear.  We’re passing the plate on Sunday.