Tootling

I was at a posh fund-raiser recently. When we had completely gorged ourselves on the chefs' offerings at the sixty food stalls, we turned our attention to the silent auction items, drifting past the numerous tables laden with donated Things that you might want to add to your collection of Things. I was unmoved by most of the products.

 

And then I saw a clarinet. A brand-new one, its three sections nestled in a velvet-lined box. How cool is that, I thought. Next to it was a trumpet, similarly pristine, beautifully presented. And next to these two was a flute. A flute! A silvery, not-too-expensive flute! I could play the flute again—I know I could. I still remember the fingerings (except for some of the high-register adjustments, but I could get an instruction book for those). This wouldn't be like the cello. I wouldn't be starting from ground zero. I already know how to play the flute! Marching band! Concert band! And I could find a friend to play guitar or piano while I tootled on the flute. We'd make music.

 

The flute's stated value was $400, with a starting bid of $200. I hesitated, I dreamed, I imagined. And then I moved on. But I kept glancing back at the flute. Were there any bids yet? Was it feeling unloved? I wanted that flute in the worst way. And then I left it behind and the longing dissipated.

 

It wasn't until the next morning that realized why I had not bid for that flute. There is no time in my life for a flute. My cookbook manuscript is demanding more and more attention; it is obvious that there is no room at all in my present life for a flute. Tootling will have to wait.

 

 

Copyright 2014 Ann Tudor

www.anntudor.ca
http://www.scenesfromthejourney.blogspot.com