Pickle Buckets & Reeds: A Band Kid's Origin Story

In sixth grade, the rite of passage was simple: Tonette class.
Tiny black plastic recorders with three holes, squealing “Hot Cross Buns” like our lives depended on it. That first day of practice sounded like a duck call competition at full volume. Chaos. I don’t know how our music teacher survived it, probably with earplugs and prayer.

But by Christmas, we were blowin’ through “Jingle Bells” like pros. We even had a concert. There wasn’t a dry eye in the house, mostly from laughter or maybe mild trauma. The best part? Our foot tapping. To keep time, every kid on that stage stomped the rhythm into the wooden floor like it owed them money. It echoed like a herd of reindeer galloping across the roof, thunderous, chaotic, and somehow still on beat. Bless those parents for showing up.

By junior high, we were ready for the real deal.
It was time to pick our instruments. Big kid band.

I knew right away, I was not going to blow spit into a brass instrument. Watching those high schoolers drain the spit valves was enough to convince me. I went with the B♭ clarinet. Elegant, classy... not dry, unfortunately. Turns out, clarinets have their own kind of spit situation. After every practice, you had to clean it out using a cloth tied to a long string. You dropped it down the barrel and pulled it through like you were fishing something out. Honestly, it reminded me of catching crawdads with a piece of bacon on a string, just drop it in, give it a tug, and hope you didn’t pull out anything too gross. And trust me, that cleaning cloth? No one washed theirs. It lived in the case like some forgotten swamp creature, getting stinkier and crustier by the day.

And speaking of cases... while the other girls toted beautiful wooden clarinets in sleek black leather cases, mine came from a pawn shop, shiny black plastic nestled in a hard dark green plastic case that looked like something you’d use to carry power tools. I never took it home. Too many stares. Too much shame. I told myself I didn’t need to “practice,” anyway.

Our clarinet section was massive, at least 25 of us, all squeaking our way through scales like we were summoning geese. My poor bottom lip was raw from the start. My crooked front teeth bore into that thing like a power drill, leaving me with a scar shaped like the city limits of Dallas. Every time I tried to complain, I was handed another box of reeds and told to “tighten your embouchure.” Whatever that meant.

I eventually clawed my way to fourth chair. A miracle, really, especially with my crooked teeth and that old pawn shop clarinet. I could play. In fact, I practiced hard and took pride in getting it right… as long as I was sitting still.

And then came the big leagues: High school marching band.
I had dreamed of those glorious halftime shows, those crisp uniforms with tall white hats and gold tassels. It all looked so majestic from the stands.

Reality?

Used uniforms that smelled like sweat, mildew, and disappointment.
Those glorious hats? Stored in literal pickle buckets. They reeked of hot pickles and old socks. They were heavy, too, nearly broke my neck trying to keep mine straight. Apparently, hat alignment was critical for marching. They yelled if your tassel was too wobbly.

Marching was terrifying. I wasn’t worried about playing, I was too busy counting steps and trying not to trip over my own feet. One poor soul got so into his trumpet solo that he marched right into the end zone. The whole stadium roared with laughter. I just whispered a quiet “Thank you, Jesus” that, for once, it wasn’t me.

Out on that football field, I clutched my clarinet like it was a baton and focused on staying in formation. From the moment we lined up until the final whistle, I didn’t play a single note. Not because I couldn’t, but because I didn’t dare. One wrong move and I’d take down a whole row of flutes. Playing while marching? Not this girl. Survival came first.

The bus rides? Torture.
Freshmen didn’t get seats. We had to sit cross-legged in the aisle on our pickle bucket hat containers. If the game was out of town, my backside went numb and my legs tingled like I’d been electrocuted. I’d stumble off the bus like a baby giraffe with vertigo.

And then there was the weather.

In the Texas summer, we roasted in the stands like fish in a frying pan.
Spring and Fall brought torrential rain. The only time we got to leave was if there was lightning. And wet band uniforms? Imagine a dozen wet dogs... then multiply that by funk and polyester.

Winter meant the dreaded Christmas Parade, a special kind of frozen torture. The kind where your breath turns to ice and your regrets crystallize. My fingers stuck to the keys like a tongue on a frozen flagpole. My lips? Frozen to the mouthpiece like a kiss I never wanted. My toes had vanished entirely, they probably left a toe trail back on 3rd street, and I’m pretty sure my nose gave up and went numb somewhere around Main Street.

By the halfway point, icicles were literally forming on my eyelashes, and my eyelids froze halfway open. I couldn’t blink. I just stared ahead like a wide-eyed snow zombie with a clarinet. We marched through town like stiff-legged penguins, slipping and squeaking, sounding like a rusted swing set caught in a cold front. And somehow, no one questioned it. Bless our frostbitten, off-key hearts.

But you know what?
I showed up. With my green case, my scarred lip, and a whole lotta gumption.

Back then, I was so ashamed of that green case and pawn shop clarinet. I carried it like a secret, wishing it would disappear. But oh, if I could talk to that girl now… I’d tell her that green case made her special. One of a kind. It wasn’t something to hide, it was proof that she showed up, even when it wasn’t easy. That’s the kind of strength you can’t teach.

I wasn’t the best marcher.
Or the best player.
But I had grit, a green case, and a squeak that could shatter glass.

And really, isn’t that what band is all about?