French horn

He was my horn teacher, so I would never have mentioned it. You just didn’t do that to the man who was pouring himself into you. For pennies a lesson, it seemed. And sometimes, for nothing.

I know, I know. Cart before horse. Again.

I never intend to do it, but sometimes the words just splatter themselves on the page before I can get them into any semblance of order.

Let’s try again.

Our story begins back in the late 1970’s. I was taking private lessons on the French horn, thinking I might be the next Barry Tuckwell, one of the greatest horn players of all time. I was not; am not. Still, Mr. Marlar thought I was a worthwhile candidate for his efforts.

One year, he suggested that I play with him in the summer symphony in a nearby city. I wasn’t sure I was up to the task, but he persisted. I played. He did, too.

We had been to our first rehearsal for the summer’s repertoire. I had a good night, inspiring the orchestra’s director to stop by as we packed up afterward and to compliment me. His “you’re really good” still echoes in the back of my mind after all these years.

Still, I can’t forget the other thing I heard that night. We were playing a Tchaikovsky piece and my mentor, playing first horn, had a short solo. Everyone else heard it too. I doubt anyone else mentioned it to him, either.

He played the lick perfectly. Well, except for that one interval, nearly an octave jump from one note to the other. The higher note refused to come, his lips sliding to a lower pitch with the same fingering.

Afterward, as we rode back to our town in his old 1963 Plymouth, with its push-button gear shift on the dashboard, he broke the silence.

“That was some clinker, wasn’t it?”

“Clinker? What do you mean?” I had not heard the term applied to a wrong note in music before, but I knew. I did.

He laughed, explaining that any wrong note played during a rehearsal (and hopefully not a performance) was called a clinker. He promised to work on the passage of music during the week before our next rehearsal.

There were no more clinkers heard from him the entire summer. Not so for me, but that’s a different matter.

Clinkers. Mistakes. Errors everyone knows about, but no one wants to make.

If the reader is confused, I understand.

Why would I write about an obscure error, made in a first rehearsal for a concert season over forty years ago?

The answer is that my mind works in strange ways. But, you already knew that. Still, unique and seemingly unrelated occurrences often make my thoughts jump to random memories from the distant past.

Just the other day, I made a quick trip to Tulsa, Oklahoma to drop someone off at the airport. We have a perfectly nice regional airport close to us, but a major airline that many use because of their cheaper rates doesn’t fly here.

I said it was a quick trip. I was assuming it would be that. I would travel the eighty minutes to the big city, drive the person to the departures drop-off, and travel the eighty minutes back home. It wasn’t to be.

The Lovely Lady considered the jaunt as an opportunity to visit our favorite antique store in Tulsa, so just like that, it was a not-so-quick trip to the city. I was happy to have her company.

She’s helpful like that. Talks to me. Listens to what I have to say. Holds my hand walking across parking lots.

There is a point to my rambling. Really, there is. If only I could remember…

Oh, yes! I’ve got it now.

In the neighborhood behind our favorite antique shop, there is a brick house. It’s got the strangest brick facade I’ve ever seen, all odd-shaped and dark-colored bricks. They’ve been laid this way and that. All oddly-goglin, as one of my old friends used to say. Bricks jut out from the wall, and window sills go off at angles never intended for windows.

I admit it. I didn’t understand. How could someone build a house like that? Who would live in such an oddity?

Do you know what we do when we don’t understand something—when it doesn’t fit our sense of order and neatness? I know what I did.

I made fun of it. On social media, I posted the photo I snapped as we walked past. (You may see it yourself elsewhere on this page.)

And, I made the claim that I could have done better. Me! I’ve never laid a row of bricks in my life.

Others joined with me, never having seen such a structure. I don’t blame them. I invited their responses.

Then a friend, a builder himself (and the son of a builder), wrote me a note. He explained that the house is built from a special type of bricks, themselves quite valuable now due to their rarity.

I repent. Again.

That beautiful house is built from clinker bricks. That’s what they call them.

Yes. Clinkers. Mistakes. Bricks that were too close to the heat source in the kiln the large batches were fired in. The heat distorted the material, making it darker and harder.

For many years, clinkers were thrown out. Trash. Debris. Rubble.

Useless to the brickmakers. No one would buy those ugly pieces of ceramic rubbish.

Beauty is in the eye of the beholder. I would tell you I heard it from the red-headed lady who raised me, but it was most often my father who used the old saying when I was growing up. It’s still true.

Clinker brick is highly sought after now. Its beauty is in the oddity, in its non-compliance with the norm.

I do. I repent. Not just with regard to the house.

All around, I see the clinkers and I sneer. It seems to be the human condition, to be contemptuous of things that don’t fit our norms. And, by things, I mean people.

People.

The Shepherd left the ninety-nine sheep who complied—who fit in—and He went searching on the mountainside for the clinker. (Luke 15).

The religious leaders, who defined the norm in their day, were complaining that the Teacher was spending way too much time with the clinkers in their society. So he told the story of the shepherd and his efforts for the one who refused to fit in.

We have romanticized the story, making it a beautiful allegory of the lovely little lamb who wandered away. It’s not that.

It’s the story of a determined God who pursued a determined individual bent on doing wrong. A God who loved the person who hated Him.

And, who was determined to be and do ugly things.

Thrown out by many. Pursued by a loving God.

Broken.

Made beautiful.

I am a clinker. A one-percenter, if you will. Pulled from the ashes and made useful. Wrong notes and all.

You, too?

He still chases the one.

Still.

Especially us clinkers.

To all who mourn in Israel,
    he will give a crown of beauty for ashes,
a joyous blessing instead of mourning,
    festive praise instead of despair.
In their righteousness, they will be like great oaks
    that the Lord has planted for his own glory.
(Isaiah 61:3, NLT)

“That was great, Squidward! All those wrong notes you played made it sound more original.”
(Spongebob Squarepants)

My morning at the music store was all planned out.

I always come in an hour ahead of time to get an early start. Product to be sent to customers has to be pulled and moved to the shipping room. Emails must be checked and answered. Repaired items needing to be picked up are checked again and moved to the proper section.

When the doors are unlocked, the objects to be worked with are no longer inanimate, but human. Somehow, planning goes out the window. Phone calls are answered, problems addressed, and merchandise is sold.

Still, I hadn’t counted on the Peter and the Wolf kids. Mom wondered if I would mind too very much giving them a demonstration of the musical instruments they had heard in the orchestral composition by Mr. Prokofiev.

She had a set of picture cards, but the children wanted to see the real instruments if they could, please. That is, if you don’t mind.

I didn’t mind. I’m a good guy who loves helping children.

The first card showed a bassoon. We dragged one out of the back room and assembled it, taking care to show the two tykes the double reed which gives the instrument its distinctive tone. The little girl was surprised to see that the strange instrument was much taller than she.

The next card showed an image of an oboe, so an oboe came out of its case and the smaller pieces were shoved together to make an instrument a little smaller than a clarinet. Again, the double reed made an appearance.

As each instrument came into view, the character in the musical story was named. The bassoon had been the low, naggy sound of a fussing grandfather, the oboe—Peter’s quacky duck.

One by one, we located the characters the children had met in the recording. The pretty silver flute was the little bird, and the clarinet, long, black, and sinister, was the cat that stalked the bird. The drums, such as we could find—I’m sorry ma’am; we don’t sell many timpani—were the hunters, come to help Peter in his time of need.

Of course, we had to find as many of the stringed instruments as we could, making do without a double bass viol. Peter was represented in the musical tale by the entire violin family, regardless of size.

But, we forgot one, didn’t we? Oh yes! The French horn. What shall we say about the horn?

I’m a horn player. It was a proud moment. Surely the children would be impressed.

I’ve played it nearly all my life.

The little girl, friendly and twinkly for most of the tour of instruments, stared at me, her mouth open and eyes wide. Disbelief was written all over her face.

You’re the wolf?

Why, yes. No!

Wait a minute! I’m not the wolf! I just play the instrument that represents him in the symphony. I’m not really the wolf.

The children are gone. That was hours ago.

I’m still a little shaken.

Am I the wolf?

Am I?

Thoughts swirl in my head. The horn is forgotten for the time being, but other things are not. Memories of acts committed, never to be undone, are mixed with the cacophony of voices that have filled my ears.

All have sinned—there is not one righteous person—whoever breaks one law is guilty of breaking all—those who live like this will not see God. (Romans 3:23, Ecclesiastes 7:20, James 2:10, Galatians 5:19-21)

There are times—perhaps only for a moment, but often for days—when the memories of what I have been and done haunt my waking hours. They even stretch my waking hours, leaving me restless in my bed, denying sleep.

Always, finally, the reality of grace hits home. Always.

Always, finally, the reality of grace hits home. Always. Share on X

Do the voices not speak truthfully, then? Am I not a sinful man?

They do. I am.

I was the wolf. Was.

And, just like the wolf in Peter’s tale, I deserved death but found instead life.

While I was still doing damage to Him, grace was offered. To an enemy, He offered comfort and safety. (Romans 5:8)

Grace is stronger than the wolf.

I am not who I was.

I’ll play my horn again in the morning. I know I’ll smile as I remember my little friend, mouth agape and eyes opened wide.

No, my dear. I am not the wolf.

Not anymore.

Grace is stronger.

Such were some of you; but you were washed, but you were sanctified, but you were justified in the name of the Lord Jesus Christ and in the Spirit of our God.
(1 Corinthians 6:11 ~ NASB ~ Copyright © 1960, 1962, 1963, 1968, 1971, 1972, 1973, 1975, 1977, 1995 by The Lockman Foundation)

I have many regrets, and I’m sure everyone does. The stupid things you do, you regret if you have any sense, and if you don’t regret them, maybe you’re stupid.
(Katharine Hepburn ~ American actress ~ 1907-2003)

He's Taken Leave

Random wanderings with Paul Phillips

Clinkers (and Other Things I Don’t Understand)

Grace and the Wolf