Airports make me giddy.

I don't get the opportunity to travel all that often. The Marine Corps band here in Quantico, while some what of a traveling circus at times, doesn't get as much road time as I might like. And the usual response people have to traveling is one of dread. The hassle, the people, the rush of humanity, the crush of heightened stress levels, the inevitable flight delays, and finally, the interminable wait by the baggage carousel. I, for one, love this stuff. And that's probably just because I hardly ever get to fly anywhere anymore. But here I am, sitting on my own in the middle of Reagan National Airport, and I love it. There's a freedom in this. One that you just can't get anywhere else. (I think I just heard a hamster/gerbil/dog yip across the terminal. People who have dogs small enough to count as carry-ons need to be automatically shot by the security personnel.)

I love that you can sit here in an airport and listen to just about any cross-section of life at any one time. The avid sports fan, the nomadic businessman, the excited child, the nervous parent; everything just sort of collides in an airport.

The reason I am excited today, however, is almost entirely unrelated. Today, I fly to Chicago. And I'm going to the Midwest Music Educator's Conference. NERRRRDDDSSS!! YES! It's going to be awesome. 5 days of blissful nerditude. I can be as dorky as I want, and it really is cool. Because literally every single other person there, is there for the same reason. I get to meet titans in the music industry, and the education industry, and the music education industry. I get to rub elbows with the big guys. I get to pull out my horn(my wonderful, beautiful horn) and make better toots with people who also know how to make better toots (only one person will understand why that's funny). Lucky. That's what I am.

I found my horn.

So, I have this french horn, right? I've had it since I was about 17. It's a beautiful, unlaquered, Alexander 206C. It's lived various and sundry places with me: Massachusetts, Virginia, California, Virginia again, and I have always loved it in it's dingy, old, worn and tired glory. And not until today, until this very day, did I really understand what it was that I hold in my hand.

My horn is stamped with the name "Thomas Newell", which meant nothing to me until this morning when the horn surgeon from who I retrieved my baby made a statement about this man being a former horn player for the Boston Pops in the late 70s and 80s. How did I miss that?? How did I, a fan of the BSO and the Pops for the entirety of my sentient life miss such a connection? In my research, I found that he did some teaching at the New England Conservatory in the 70s, as well as being an creative inspiration to many. He developed lip cancer (real career breaker for a horn player - and an issue for which he was sued his doctor) and could no longer play. In short, in all of my research of this man, he was a musician to emulate. A teacher, mentor, friend, and eminently talented musician.

With such an austere dossier literally tattooed on this horn, I picked up again after months using nothing but student model Conn 8Ds (a perfectly viable alternative), and felt a new sense of belonging to this instrument. All I am saying, is that you never know what you have, until you know what you have. And I'm lucky.