In 1988, St. Nick brought me a snare drum.
A Ludwig Acrolite, it came with its own space-aged case that had special carved-out spots for my drumsticks and the foldable chrome stand. That single, fourteen-inch tuna can lit a fuse which turned into a wildfire. When I should have been reviewing my history notes or brushing up on Spanish shoe verbs, all I wanted to do was learn the opening fill to “Take the Money and Run.” It was a fire I couldn’t contain.
Like most burgeoning musicians, I studied the craft, which meant setting up my single Ludwig in the TV room, so I could scrutinize MTV videos. Other lessons came from cassette tapes and the radio. I threw on my Sony headphones and jammed along to any song, any band. Drumming became my air. While I saved up for more pieces of a legitimate kit, I doodled drums in geometry class and borrowed back issues of Modern Drummer Magazine from my neighbor, memorizing advice from Stewart Copeland and Neil Peart. There were detailed answers about tom placement and ride cymbal height or whether heel-up or heel-down worked best. In a couple of months, I had added roto-toms, woodblocks, and a timbale, so the instrument swirled around my room like a giant octopus. Cymbal boom arms bumped into my desk. A floor tom turned into a nightstand. A Tommy Lee poster replaced Gary Gait. Instead of throwing the lacrosse ball, I wanted to hit more cymbals. It was all I wanted to do – get in a band, write songs, hit the road – and rock ‘n roll!
There’s a power that comes from figuring out what makes you tick, and I had found the energy source. Drums became my thing – the electrons and the protons. I was the semiconductor.
I see a similar electricity with Atticus. This fall, all he has wanted to do is fish. It’s different from our little trips to the neighborhood pond, chasing bluegill. Now, when he gets home, he takes off down the street with his fishing rod, his tackle box, and his net, each part strapped to his mountain bike like some cross-country cyclist. As I watch him go, I’m reminded of The Andy Griffith show where things move slowly and everyone knows everyone. If he asks, I’ll take him in the Jeep. The rods bounce around in the back as we journey three blocks, toward the James. He’s carved out his own spot on the shore and uses a folding picnic table as his operating table, setting up lures and size five hooks like some sort of peddler. It’s his thing.
In the beginning, I thought he’d catch something small or – nothing. But it all changed one day after I dropped him off with a buddy. By the time I got home, he was already calling me.
“Dad, it’s HUMONGOUS!”
He sent me a photo – and then, another. Lifted in front of him, the fish ran from the top of his head to the middle of his knee cap. It didn’t look real.
When I forwarded the photos around the family group text, several guys said it might be a twenty-pounder. A trusted fly-fisherman buddy said, “That thing’s probably the same age as Atticus.” The fish photos crossed state lines to Florida and North Carolina, and everyone in the family was impressed.
Since then, each day has turned into an adventure. He spotted a sturgeon. He reeled in an eel. He’s come home with poison ivy and some sort of bee sting on his hand; his net and his rod both broke; and his AirPods are now down river.
Still, he casts again, in search of the next big catch, like learning additional drum fills for the night’s setlist.
When I was his age, I threw a different hook. I started collecting the classifieds from the walls of music stores. “Hair band seeks heavy hitter – love of Nugent a must!” I ripped down entire ads to sweeten my chances, made some phone calls, and found some dudes across town. My Dad wasn’t so sure about any of it.
“But Dad, I’m a drummer. Drummers need bands. This is it!”
Three days later, my father and I showed up at some house, six zip-codes away. It was a small rancher that was quickly packed with what seemed like a hundred people. I thought my father would go back to the car, recline his seat, and listen to Buddy Holly tapes as I played my heart out to Free and Bachman-Turner Overdrive hits, but he didn’t. Instead, he propped himself against the wall like an undercover cop. Dirty amps crackled, and I counted us off. As the host for the night ripped into “Smoke on the Water,” the spaceship of rock entered another galaxy.
At that moment, the blessing of playing with like-minded rollers sank into my pores. The chords rang clearer outside of my bedroom and away from mere cassette tapes. We soared through a classic rock repertoire: “We’re an American Band,” “Gimme 3 Steps,” and “Jumpin’ Jack Flash.” Each one sounded more glorious. I exchanged chin nods and shoulder bumps with guys five times my age. And when we played that Steve Miller intro (for “Take the Money and Run,” of course), I nailed the signature tshish-tshish cymbal part.
On the car ride home, Dad and I didn’t speak. Staring out the car window with my drums in the back, I was somewhere else, thinking about my rock n’ roll moment and the future. I knew nothing about crowded tour buses or incense-filled studios. But the bait had been tossed. And that night, I started wading into the deep end.
Today, Atticus caught his first large mouth, a four-pounder, along with a thirteen-pound blue cat. He texted me the photos when I was in the basement, doing my own sort of noodling around my drum set. As the fish photos came through, an electricity hit me with a couple hundred volts.
My son had found his energy source.
