My father always wanted a large family and a family band. He got both. Back during the Depression he had been in the Samaritan band and likely wore his uniform when he marched all the way to Washington, D.C.
One cold winter day in Nebraska reporters swarmed our cattle ranch near Bridgeport to do an article on our famous band. The story, complete with pictures, was in a national publication. That’s the closest we came to being celebrities.
I wasn’t so proud of our band. Maybe because I had to play the French horn, perhaps, I thought, because I was a middle child.Number six of twelve kids. My brothers and sisters got the more exciting instruments like the cornets, trombone, baritone. Even Max got to play a snare drum. Sis Gay still has the tiny cymbals she used to play. After twins Betty and Bobby got older, they were given trumpets.
Mom probably had the most awful horn - the bass horn. All she did was play a note to the beat of Papa’s bass drum. But that’s what I did too. Um pa pa! Um pa pa!
What I most disliked was our practice sessions. Every morning, after milking cows, we all gathered into our spare bedroom where chairs were set up. We filed into the room, grabbed our instrument and tried to play John Phillip Sousa’s tunes that Papa put on our music stands. When we messed up, which we often did, Papa would get soangry and start yelling. At least with the French horn I seldom messed up.
On Saturdays my father would load us up in the pickup, with our instruments, and head for Southwest City, Missouri. When we arrived we took out wooden folding chairs and instruments from their worn leather cases. Papa, in his clean bib overalls, would raise the baton high and we would play a concert for the folks who had come to town. Everybody came to town on Saturday afternoons, so we had a captive audience. Sometimes I’d spy a classmate and knowI’d be made fun of come next week at school. The only good thing that happened is that sometimes someone would slip us some coins and we could buy an ice cream cone at the drugstore or candy at Queen’s grocery.
The Wiggin Family Band grew out of a search for something the family could do to break the dread silence of the prairie where we lived in western Nebraska. We played “From the Halls of Montezuma” and “America the Beautiful”, learning to count from waltzes and two-step music. To this day my favorite part of a parade are the marching bands. We played at parades or any celebration that would have us.
Once we actually got invited to play at a theater in Mountainburg. The day we left it started to snow. We kids stayed cozy in the box Papa had built over the back of the pickup. By the time we arrived the streets were a sheet of ice. We didn’t even take out our instruments. Nor did we get a promised percentage of the take, since no one showed up, but the owner slipped Papa a ten dollar bill. He brought cots and groceries to the school gym where we spent the night.
When Papa died in 1951 Verne played taps over his grave at Wann Cemetery.Mom sold our farm and moved us to Gravette. We tooted our horns in the school band until the band room burned down, with most of our instruments. Verne ( who had seven children and started his own family band) and George still played their horns at our Wiggin Family Reunion. Bobby sometimes brought his guitar and sang country songs.
A few years ago I went to a school concert to see my granddaughter as she played a clarinet in the band. The band leader praised the kids who played the French horns, saying it was one of the hardest instruments to play. That’s the first time I was proud that I had played the French horn.
Marie Putman, one-time Gravette resident, shares her thoughts with our readers twice every month.
Opinion, Pages 4 on 05/26/2010