Hostel Is A Homophone
The bridge from Sandy Hook to Harpers Ferry...and also from lunacy to sanity.
"Nothing just happens! Nothing just happens!" thundered the evangelizing voice of T.D. Jakes as I gnawed on fried chicken from the comfort of my hotel bed. The congregation shouted its approval of their leader's assertion that there is no such thing as a coincidence. I pondered the idea for a moment, took another swig of cola, and clicked the remote. Now The Andy Griffith Show flickered from the screen. It was an episode I recognized, the classic "Man In A Hurry," in which a stranded big-city motorist finds his patience tested by the leisurely pace of Mayberry as he waits for his car to be repaired.
"Ah, what luck," I enthused before it occurred to me that T. D. Jakes would presumably disagree.
I was determined to squeeze whatever enjoyment I could out of my accommodations, as my room was costing me four times what I had budgeted. Perched high atop Harpers Ferry at the edge of the Catholic cemetery, my lodgings were in every way a far cut above my original reservations. In order to justify the indulgence of attending a five-day educational conference at my own expense (along with opportunities to do further research for my historical novel set in the area), I had intended to stay a little further down the Potomac, just across the river. There at the base of Maryland Heights is the small community of Sandy Hook, where a humble hostel offers shelter to Appalachian Trail hikers, assorted vagabonds, and fiscally prudent educators.
The idea of staying in a hostel held no appeal to me beyond its minimal cost. Multi-bunk barracks and community bath facilities are not what I would consider to be positive amenities. In addition, this establishment was only open in the evening, overnight and morning hours, outside of which the doors were locked. Still, I anticipated a busy week, and what more would I need from my accommodations but a safe bed and a shower? As I was traveling alone, I did not need to consider the comfort of my family. I could handle roughing it for a few days. It might even make the whole endeavor more fun, allowing me to assume the role of the itinerant writer, a rugged intellectual who cares not where he sleeps so long as he may practice his craft.
Trumpet Lessons
The bane of my adolescent existence.
Black Monday.
My parents were disappointed with the label I had affixed to the evenings on which my trumpet lessons were scheduled. Having spent a good deal of money to purchase the instrument itself, they no doubt would have been pleased had their son expressed any measure of gratitude over the further expense they incurred by arranging private lessons. Each week they took the time to drive me to the outskirts of town so that I could spend a half hour in the presence of my instructor, a stern man renowned in my family for his success in developing the musical talents of a couple of my siblings. Despite my parents' sacrifices, I was far from grateful.
It was a dismal clash of disparate personalities. Mr. Steffman was a gifted teacher who expected his students to arrive motivated and well-practiced. Anything less was unworthy of his time. Had I the maturity and discipline to adhere to his regimen to any degree, I might have blossomed into a brass master. Unfortunately, I was a self-absorbed, sullen teen with little patience beyond instant gratification. Regular practice interfered with more important pursuits, like afternoon, early evening, and prime time television viewing.