Um pa pa, Um pa pa. I blew my french horn, envious of older brothers, George, Verne and Paul, playing shiny brass trumpets and coronets. It wasn't enough being the middle child - number six of 12 — I had to end up with the most uninteresting instrument. Even my older sisters got fine horns. Lela played the complex trombone — I never figured out how she forced notes by pulling a handle back and forth — and Helen her beautiful baritone.
Papa always wanted a large family, and a family band. He got both. Before he'd brought mom to Fayetteville to get married back in the depression days, he'd proudly worn his Samaritan band uniform and marched all the way to Washington D.C. blowing his coronet.
I hated our band. Probably because it represented an hour each day of papa yelling at us to get our notes right. Of course with my um pa pa echoing mama's pum pum on her tuba, I didn't have to worry much about hitting a wrong note.
The twins, Bobby and Betty, just younger than me, tooted clarinets. When they got older they graduated to trumpets, but papa never suggested I play one. Little brother, Max, on his snare drum, kept time with papa's base drum, while baby Joy pounded tiny cymbals.
We played such favorites as "From the Halls of Montezuma" and "America the Beautiful," learning to count playing waltzes and two step music. My favorites were John Philip Sousa's marches. I admit, to this day, I love to stand on street corners and watch parades with marching bands, listening closely for the beat of the tuba and french horn.
The Wiggin Family Band grew out of a search for something the family could do to break
the dead silence of the prairie where we lived in Western Nebraska. After moving to a farm in northwest Arkansas, the last two were born, and Gay and Cynthia were handed cymbals.
Saturday afternoons papa would load the family into our old grey pickup and head to Southwest City, Mo., just across the state line. Upon arrival the instruments were taken from their worn leather cases, and mismatched folding chairs set in a circle in the middle of the sidewalk. Then papa, dressed in his clean bib overalls, would raise the baton high over the base drum and the music would begin.
The towns people gathered around to watch this unusual sight - likely their only "culture" before the days of TV. Embarrassed I'd hide my face from the school kids who stood around. Because I knew, on Monday morning when Verne would drive his Model A to school and us kids would pile out, those same kids would be standing out front, yelling, "Here come the wiggle worms. Play us a tune, now." I'd ignore them then, too.
Sometimes a man would hand us money after the street concert. Papa always took the money, then he'd make a big show of giving each of us a nickel. We'd hurry to the drug store to buy a double decker ice cream cone with chocolate on one side and strawberry on the other. Or we'd head across the street to Queen's grocery where jars full of colorful candy set on the counter. Sometimes you could get five pieces for one penny. Five cents worth of hard candy might last all week if you didn't share.
Papa proudly took his band to every event for miles around - parades, fairs, pie suppers, roundups, school parties. He never needed an invitation. When Kraft opened a cheese plant in Bentonville, we joined the celebration. After our uninvited concert Mr. Kraft walked out to our homemade bandstand and personally welcomed us. He picked up tiny Gay and posed for a picture which later appeared on the front page of the weekly newspaper.
Once in a while we'd actually get invited, like the time an owner of a movie theater in Mountainburg even promised us a percentage of the take. Mama went shopping and brought home matching store-bought dresses for Betty and me - soft, blue silk, with colorful flowers.
The day we left it started to snow before we reached Bentonville. We kids stayed cozy in the box Papa had built over the back of the pickup. The streets were a sheet of ice by the time we arrived at the Mountainburg theater. Only a few people showed up and we didn't even take out our instruments. We did get to see the movie, a rare treat. Afterward the owner slipped papa a ten dollar bill and brought cots and groceries over to the school gym where we spent the night. Mama made baloney sandwiches for supper.
When papa died in 1951 Verne played taps over his grave at Wann cemetery near our farm. We moved to Gravette and played in the school band until the band building burned, with most of our instruments. I well remember the time our band came to play at a regional event in Rogers.
Verne had seven children and started his own family band. Bobby learned to play guitar and sing country. At family reunions, in the evenings as we sit outside visiting after a huge meal and watch our children play, Verne will take his restored brass coronet from its glass case and
others bring out instruments. We sing along as they play songs like "Onward Christians Soldiers" and "Amazing Grace." The sharp, clear notes float for miles through the still air. And the band plays on.