The Tuba Trade

🌺 Part of the Essays series

I was twenty-one, a college music student with a newly acquired VW Jetta TDI and a reason—finally—to take a solo road trip. 

My enormous 6/4 tuba was the elephant in the room.

I had thought it would help—an instrument that big should have made it easier for my lungs to fill up a room. Instead, I was constantly swimming in it, fighting for control instead of making music.  

I was ready to find something that fit me.

An instrument I could navigate.
An instrument I could grow into.
An instrument that felt like mine.

I heard rumors about a place in Terre Haute, Indiana—Woodwind Brasswind—a store with an entire room of tubas.

I needed to see it for myself.

And I was going to make the trade.

With my tuba in the trunk and multiple MP3 playlists queued up, I headed east on I-80, the taste of freedom in the air.

I don’t remember much of the drive itself.

Not the towns or the exits or where I stopped for gas. But I remember the phase I was in.

Country music.

A lot of Lady A, The Chicks, Rascal Flatts, and Brad Paisley.

And one song in particular—Wide Open Spaces—on repeat more than once.

It felt like the right soundtrack for the version of me that was driving east. Windows down, music loud, somewhere between who I had been and who I was becoming.

I arrived at the mythical place—Woodwind Brasswind.

It was true.

There was a room of tubas.

They lined the walls in tuba-sized cubbies, each one waiting to be picked up, tested, considered.

I explained what I was looking for and began playing.

One after another.

Some felt familiar. Some felt different, but not enough. I worked through the room, listening more than thinking.

And then one of them said hello.

I noticed.

But I kept going.

I circled back around.

A brass 4/4 Cerveny with a smaller bell—compact, beautifully contorted. They called her model a “Piggy,” a nickname that made sense the moment I picked it up.

I played for a few minutes.

I didn’t need long.

This was the one.

Then the salesperson and I talked through mouthpieces, and I chose a steep, full-cup piece—heavy, deliberate, designed to support the upper range I knew I would need for my senior recital.

It was a commitment.

I packed my new horn into the trunk, with care and something moving towards affection.

The rest of the trip unfolded in miles and destinations.

In Ohio, I surprised my grandma and played for her—this new sound, smaller, steadier, more like me.  My dad’s old room became my practice space while I stayed–I ran through my etudes and pieces, getting used to new fingerings and the new mouthpiece.

That’s when she told me her name was Babe.

I drove to Cedar Point and spent a dizzying day on roller coasters. 

I visited my aunt’s impressive dairy farm.  

I drove into Canada for lunch.

And somewhere between all of that, I got a speeding ticket on the way to my cousin’s house party.

It felt appropriate.  

I eventually made my way home—back to my jobs, back to school, back to the version of my life that had been waiting for me.

But something changed.

My other tuba had been named Dante—massive, silver, and engulfing in both sound and presence.

Babe was different. Smaller. Humble. Enough.

The difference was obvious.

When I returned, I wasn’t just a music student anymore. I knew how I wanted to sound.

Babe was mine.  

Or, as I came to think of her—

my music partner.