Tears and Trombones

Tears and Trombones

by Nanci Lee Woody


Publisher Sand Hill Review Press

Published in Literature & Fiction/Literary, Literature & Fiction/Contemporary, Literature & Fiction

Are you an AUTHOR? Click here to include your books on

Book Description


🌟🌟🌟🌟🌟 112 customer reviews

Joey, a poor, scrappy kid and an unlikely candidate for a symphony orchestra, nevertheless decides he wants to be a musician. His boozy father is not pleased and uses ridicule, humiliation and finally, cruelty, to dissuade his son from his ambitions. TEARS AND TROMBONES follows Joey as he maneuvers through a difficult childhood that makes holding onto his dream all but impossible. It is a coming of age story, a passionate love story, and a story filled with music of all kinds - from Johnny Cash to Shostakovich, from the Beach Boys to Mozart.

Sample Chapter


Father’s body was paralyzed on the left side. His face sagged. A tube snaked from his mouth. Saliva slid over his slack lips and down his chin, onto his neck. The stroke had rendered him helpless, he was strapped to his bed, yet I expected him at any moment to bolt up in a rage to seek revenge on the nurses who supervised his detention. I imagined that they, who wiped the spittle from his face, changed his bags and measured his bodily fluids, turned and bathed him, kept him alive, would experience his wrath if they were tending to him when he awoke.

His body jerked violently before it settled down to its unceasing shaking. I felt a tinge of pity for him, but little else except guilt for not feeling something more appropriate.

I pondered the long evening ahead.

“Maybe some music will help us make it through the night,” I said.

I looked at Dad, half expecting a response. Getting none, I plugged in my tape player and moved close to his bed.

“We’re listening to Mozart’s Requiem in D Minor. He had a commission to write the piece, you know, but told his wife that it would be played at his own funeral. He was, unfortunately, right. It was the last thing he wrote.”

I took a wicked delight in talking to my father this way, knew he would rather die right now than listen to anything by Mozart. I turned up the volume as much as is prudent in intensive care, closed my eyes and spoke over the music.

“Be sure to listen for the trombone solo in the Third Movement. It’s called the Tuba Mirum.” I played the Requiem throughout the night. Very late, with the chorus soaring, I dozed off.

I was awakened by a cacophony of loud beeps, alarms and footsteps as nurses rushed into the room. In a flurry of activity, they checked Dad’s blood pressure and pulse, put a light to his eyes. They called for a doctor who repeated everything they had just done. Finally, the doctor shook his head, indicating the battle was over.

He pulled the sheet over my dad’s face. “I’m sorry. We did all we could. We’ll leave you two alone now.”

The room was silent. Dad was still. I felt nothing. Tentatively, I slid my chair to his bedside and pulled the sheet from his face. His eyes, open, revealed not a trace of the smirk or disdain that I expected. He seemed peaceful, his face untainted by anger or remorse.


I can still feel her coming to get me out of bed, the trailer shuddering with each footstep as she comes clomping from the kitchen. I can feel her desire to help me break away, though she has but a vague idea of how to go about it, never having escaped herself. This seemingly ordinary day was to be a pivotal one for me and, except for the fact that my mother had a lofty but unformed vision for my future, I might never have gotten out of bed that morning.



“This is the third and last time I’m telling you to get up.” She jerked the blanket off me. “Now.”

I smashed my fist into the mattress. “I hate school and I ain’t going.”

“Don’t you be saying ‘ain’t’ when you’re talking to me,” she snarled. “And in case you think a nine-year-old kid makes his own decisions around here, think again.”

She spun around to leave, still talking. “One thing I know for sure is you won’t be making any new friends here in bed.”

She rattled pans in the kitchen so nobody could sleep even if they wanted to. I plopped down at the table, ate a plate-sized pancake and asked for another before trudging down the dirt road. The school bell was ringing as I slipped in at the back of the line just in time to have to listen to some older kid who started out his bragging the minute I arrived.

“Guess what I get to do?”

Nobody answered or even cared but he kept on.

“I’m going to the City to hear a man play his violin.” He lowered his head and glanced at me, smiled an ugly smile. “Probably none of you ever even saw a violin.”

He took a chocolate bar out of his pocket and held it up so we could all get a good look. He unwrapped it slow-like and took a bite.

“Anyway,” he went on, “my dad says that nobody in this one-horse town would care anything about a symphony concert or even that Tchaikovsky will be there.”

“Who?” I asked

“Chai - coff – skee,” he said, looking me over good. “But they don’t let fruit-picking trash like you in concert halls.”

“Just shut up.” I shoved him hard out of line. “I can go anywhere I want to.”

“Liar!” he said, pointing at me. “You don’t even have any shoes.”

I punched him in the face and kicked him. When his chocolate bar fell to the ground, I tromped on it, squishing it through my toes. “You’re a piss-pot, turd face,” I yelled just before the teacher grabbed me.

“Maurice! Joey! What’s going on here?”

“He started it,” I said, struggling to free myself.

“Did not!” Maurice the bragger pointed to the melting chocolate mess in the dirt. “Look what he just did.”

“Joey! Just a few days here and you’re in trouble already.” She yanked me inside and stuck me in the corner for the rest of the morning without even listening to my side.

After school, I left there quick, running. As I got close to our trailer, I stopped by the wooden storage shed dad had cobbled together just so I could savor the yeasty, wonderful smell of fresh baked bread. The shed stood with its door hanging open, padlock dangling. A 25-pound sack of flour was leaning against the wall, its top slashed open, a measuring cup and sifter poking out of the soft, white contents. On a small shelf alongside the half full bag of flour were two more neatly folded empty bags with blue and white flowers on them.

Knowing I’d have to tell her about the fight with Mr. Stuck Up Asshole Turd Face, I opened the screen door, knowing she would be standing there with her apron on, sprinkling flour over the small wooden table and no longer mad at me. She smiled as I opened the screen door.

I figured I’d get it over with right away. “I got in a fight today, but I didn’t start it.”

She put down her rolling pin. A frown replaced her smile.

“Some kid was making fun of me,” I cried. “He called me trash and said I couldn’t go to a concert like him because I don’t have any shoes and I said I could, too. So can I?”

“What concert?”

“Chai - koff - skee,” I said, proud of myself for remembering. “He has a violin. It’s a symphony concert in the City.”

“You can’t get blood out of a turnip, Joey. We barely have enough food to eat and you want to go to some concert.” She pushed her hair back from her face, leaving a smudge of flour on her forehead. “How do you think we’d pay for it?”

“You hide money sometimes.”

“Not for wasting.” She wiped her hands on her apron, looked at me. “In my whole life, I’ve never been to any kind of concert. I doubt if you’ll even like the symphony.”

“I will, too, like it!”

“And San Francisco’s got traffic and cable cars everywhere.” She sounded impatient. “And hills so steep you think you’re going to roll off the earth.”

“Maurice is a crappy jerk and he was making fun of me. I had to say I could go.” I clenched my fists and pounded on my hips. “Take me just this once. I promise I’ll never ask for anything ever again.”

“You’ve got to be the most persistent kid in the world.” She plopped the dough on the table. “I need to make a pie now.”

“No.” I yanked on her apron. “Not yet. You didn’t say you’d take me.”

“I’ll have to think about it.”

“That means you’re not going to do it. ” I stomped away, my throat tight, eyes burning.

“You don’t need to be walking away from me like that.” She came after me, knelt down, wiped away my tears with her fingers.

“Listen, now. For the life of me, I don’t understand why this is so important to you, but since it is, I’ll try to find a way to get us there, if it’s not too much money.” She shook her head a little, stood. “Remember, I said ‘try’. ”

I’d won. I put my arms around her waist, hugged her tight. “They won’t let me in barefoot.”

“There’s a rummage sale this weekend,” she said, rumpling my hair. “Looks like I’d better cut that thick mop of yours, too.” She put her finger in front of her lips. “Let’s keep this just between the two of us for now,” she whispered, though there wasn’t anybody else around. “I’ll tell Vernon when the time is right.”


My older brother and I shared a tiny room off the kitchen, with one bed on either side of the short passageway that led to the not-much-bigger bedroom at the back end of the trailer where my parents slept, just a sliding door between the rooms. John had taped a photograph of dad to the wall over his bed. In it, dad’s head was tilted slightly, his lips curled into a barely discernible smile, his nearly-black hair slicked neatly back. He was shirtless, holding a beer in one hand. On the wall over my bed, I had taped dozens of puppy photos torn from old magazines - collies, German shepherds, retrievers, terriers, mutts - as many photos lapped over each other as would fit on the wall from my pillow to the ceiling.

On the night mom chose to tell dad about our concert in San Francisco, she wore a dress with little blue and yellow flowers on it. She had sewed a ruffle around the hem and designed a belt that tied around her waist and made a bow in the back. She put on lipstick, pinched her cheeks, let her long, wavy hair hang loose.

Dad took notice. “Well, look at you.” He put his hands around her waist as she put a cold beer on the weather-worn table. He patted his thighs, grinned, and said, “Sit yourself here for awhile.”

Mom laughed her flirty laugh as she put her arms around his neck, sat on his lap, laid her head on his shoulder. “So you like my new dress?” She snuggled her face into his neck.

“You don’t look like no mom of two boys, I’ll say that.”

She kissed him on the lips before she scooted off his lap. She went inside and brought out a loaf of bread hot from the oven, corn on the cob and baked potatoes piled onto a plate, fried Spam, sliced tomatoes. And, she had filled the icebox with Pabst Blue Ribbon.

She winked at Dad. “Let’s eat now. Later, John can take his little brother into town to watch the free movie tonight.”

“I’m thinking that’s the best idea I’ve heard all day,” Dad said, reaching for his beer.


A couple of weeks later, Dad got one of his buddies to drive him and John to Fresno where he was supervising a fruit-picking crew while Mom and I climbed into our ’32 Model B Ford that dad had bought just a few months earlier, proud that he’d paid only $95 for it, proud that it was in such good condition, and we began our journey. Dad normally took the wheel when we went anywhere, men being the better drivers, but today mom was in charge. The windows down, her long brown hair blowing around her face, I could see she was ‘a looker’, as Dad would say, and a whole lot prettier than the pinups he was always showing me in his girly magazines.

Mom was holding the steering wheel tight as we drove forty miles an hour onto the amazing new Oakland Bay Bridge. I got on my knees and stuck my head out the window, felt the cool air on my face, counted six lanes of traffic. “This must be the longest bridge in the world,” I yelled into the wind.

“You and this bridge are about the same age.” Mom yelled back.

I wondered how people got to San Francisco before there was a bridge. Mom, who scared me a lot of times by reading my mind, answered my thoughts. “People had to take a ferry to the City before.” She grabbed my shirt and jerked it hard. “Get your head in. We’re coming to the tunnel through Yerba Buena Island. Soon after, the City!”

Mom was right about the people and traffic everywhere. When she finally found a parking place on the street, she scrambled out of the car, grabbed my hand and said, “We’re running late. Hurry on.”

We half-walked and half-ran hand in hand for blocks before she yanked me to a stop. “Oh, Joey, look.”

We stood and gawked at probably the most beautiful building in the whole world. I’d never seen anything like the War Memorial Opera House with all those arches and columns. When we’d filled our eyes, we walked up a lot of stairs to get to the ticket man only to find out the concert had already started and we couldn’t go in until after intermission.

“I should think the tickets would be half price, then.” Mom grabbed my hand and pulled me to her side.

Mr. Ticket Man looked at me from head to toe and I was glad Mom went to that rummage sale. She’d polished my shoes and they looked pretty good, even if they weren’t new.

“If you don’t mind standing,” he said, “it won’t cost much at all.”

She handed him the money, took the tickets and we went inside. There was so much to see, I just planted my feet and pointed. “Look. Up there!”

Her eyes followed my finger. “My Goodness. I’ve never seen such a place.” Mom thumbed through the program notes. “Says here this is the Grand Entrance Hall and what you’re pointing at is the high barrel vaulted ceiling.” She put her arm around my shoulder and gave me a squeeze. “If you hadn’t been paying attention, we might have missed it.”

Holding my hand, walking and reading all at the same time, she said, “After intermission they’re performing Tchaikovsky’s Violin Concerto in D Major. That’s who you wanted to see.”

“What does ‘D Major’ mean?”

“I’m not sure,” she replied. “Let me read some more. Maybe it will tell us.” She frowned. “It doesn’t say a thing here about D Major, but it says that Tchaikovsky was a Russian composer from the Romantic era.”

“What’s a composer?”

“That’s who writes the music. I do know that much.”

“What does the Romantic era mean?” I was upset, not knowing so many things.

Mom was a little short with me when she said, “I told you I’ve never been to a symphony concert before. These program notes don’t tell us everything.”

“But did Tchaikovsky play the violin?”

“He started piano lessons when he was only five.” She shook her head like she didn’t believe it. “Goodness.”

“How come he wrote music for the violin, then?”

She put her finger over my lips. “You can just stop asking questions, because I want to relax a little now.”

I knew she wouldn’t be silent long, so sat looking at the beautiful Grand Entrance Hall until she spoke again.

“Look, son. Here’s a picture of the man who’s going to be playing his violin.” She handed me the program.

“That looks like a fiddle. Is it the same thing?”

She ignored my question, said, “If you’ll listen, you can hear inside they’re playing Mozart’s music right now. And we’re having to sit out here in the lobby and miss it.”

“Is Mozart in there?”

“I don’t see how he could be, since he was born in 1756.” She laughed. “There’s a world of things to learn, Joey. Like this, for example.” She pointed to her program. “Mozart was a child prodigy.”

“A child what?” I asked.

She read a little bit more trying to find the answer before telling me that Mozart at six years old could play blindfolded and with his hands crossed over. Since I was nine already, I didn’t see how that could be and said so. She read that Mozart also composed his own music when he was my age.

Finally, the music inside ended and people came pouring into the lobby. Mom grabbed my hand. “We can go in now.” A woman who said she was an usher looked at our tickets. “Is this your first time at the symphony?” she asked.

Mom blushed and nodded. The usher touched her arm and led us to the very front row. “These seats aren’t taken. You sit here with your boy.”

Mom looked around. “Are you sure?”

“Of course. The front row’s great for getting a good look at the musicians, and it sure beats standing.” She winked at Mom before leaving us.

After a while, there must have been a hundred people on the stage. “Look at all those fiddles,” I remarked.

“Violins, Joey, violins!”

I was surprised to see so many different sizes of violins, some so big the men had to stand beside them and hold them up. And there were all kinds of strange-looking horns and drums. “What are all those?” I asked.

“What I know is all these men with their instruments is the symphony orchestra you wanted so bad to hear.”

The squawky noise they were making didn’t sound too good. I thought maybe Mom was right and I wouldn’t like the concert after all, but I didn’t tell her that. Maurice the piss pot was wrong, though, because Tchaikovsky wasn’t there at all since he was dead, too. Just his music was going to be played.

My thoughts were interrupted with the sound of clapping as a man wearing a black suit and carrying a violin walked onto the stage. The audience got quiet as he turned to face the orchestra and motioned to a man with a strange-looking black horn to play a note while he tried to copy it. That didn’t look too hard to me, but it must have been important because when he was satisfied he’d got the note right, the rest of the instruments with strings had to try. When they all hit the same note, the strange black horn sounded again, and the horns had their turn to try to copy the note. If this was what a concert sounded like, it was pretty boring. The first guy who started this whole thing sat down and another man with a violin came onto the stage and the audience went wild. I didn’t understand what all the clapping was about as nothing had happened besides that one note being played over and over again.

“That’s the soloist, Joey,” Mom whispered.

When the audience settled down, a man dressed in a long black coat with tails on it walked to the center of the stage and bowed several times. Everybody clapped all over again for a long time and still there was no music.

“That’s Pierre Monteau,” Mom said. “He’s the conductor. And before you ask, he’s the leader of the orchestra.”

Finally, the conductor turned to face the musicians, raised his stick and when it came down the orchestra began to play so softly at first that I could hardly hear them. I was confused and didn’t know where to look or how to listen to the different sounds coming from all around me. When the man with the violin began playing, I thought it must be the sweetest sound anybody ever heard. The breath went out of me. Everything but that music was shut out of my mind.

I don’t know how much time passed before everybody stood up and started clapping again and yelling, “Bravo! Bravo!”

Everybody except me. I just sat there in a daze, staring at the musicians. Mom shook me and asked if I was all right. She pulled me to my feet as the San Francisco Symphony played The Star Spangled Banner. I could feel the music come into my chest as the horns sounded the melody of the rockets’ red glare and I knew right then what I wanted to be some day. I wanted to be somebody really special, somebody just like that man who played the violin.


Excerpted from "Tears and Trombones" by Nanci Lee Woody. Copyright © 2014 by Nanci Lee Woody. Excerpted by permission. All rights reserved. No part of this excerpt may be reproduced or reprinted without permission in writing from the publisher. Excerpts are provided solely for the personal use of visitors to this web site.
Thanks for reading!

Join BookDaily now and receive featured titles to sample for free by email.
Reading a book excerpt is the best way to evaluate it before you spend your time or money.

Just enter your email address and password below to get started:


Your email address is safe with us. Privacy policy
By clicking ”Get Started“ you agree to the Terms of Use. All fields are required

Instant Bonus: Get immediate access to a daily updated listing of free ebooks from Amazon when you confirm your account!

Author Profile

Nanci Lee Woody

Nanci Lee Woody

Nanci Lee Woody taught management and accounting classes at American River College, served as Dean of Business and wrote textbooks before she turned to full-time writing.

View full Profile of Nanci Lee Woody

Amazon Reviews