Four-eyed, soon-to-be brace faced, and rather nerdy, Kaylee Odom is definitely my best friend. Though we may differ in music tastes, and food preferences, we still agree that we mesh very well together. Escaping the house at least 4 times a week, we always seem to conjure up very exciting things to do in our shared spare time. Most of the time we just sit around talking about music, messing around, and boys, but rarely you’ll ever find her without me at her side. She’s the kind of friend that can tell me how it really is and, all depending on the week, I simply take her words and try not to kill her. But! I believe only a true friend can make you very angry one minute and offer up the perfect solution to my frustration. Depending upon my vehicles moody days, and how much gas I happen to have in my car, we mark our territory on the town. Ice cream at 6pm, baseball at 6:15pm, and music until we pass out is a regular schedule we tend to stick to, trying to allot time to recieve our daily/weekly dose of gossip. Boys, drama, or even the occasional arguement over musical genres could never hinder a relationship like ours. Kaylee Madison Odom is my best friend, as of the minute, and I hope we will continue to be close throughout the remainder of our careers. Though we might share the same thoughts on boys, and how they are all awful, we know what is best for each other. Diamonds could not amount to a friend like her, nor could a boyfriend… though I do like him.. Girls rule, boys drool!
Of the many musical instruments I possess, ranging from those with strings to those with valves, one in particular becomes more and more special to me with each day that passes. A 1949 King trumpet, aged and rusted to its core, once belonging to my grandfather is my prized possession. Once played in the 33rd army band, as it sat second chair, it is more than just a brass instrument. Though I’m a woodwind kind of girl, I have a love for music that surpasses any love I might have for food… yeah, impossible I know. My grandfather began my musical journey through the constant nagging. “Matt,” he would always call me. “I bought you that guitar, now let’s learn to play!” Always wanting my life to be beautifully colored with the sounds of Tommy Dorcey, and Louis Armstrong, Grandfather would always tell me of his younger days, dazzling the ladies with his handsome uniform, and his freshly-waxed trumpet at his side. This trumpet, though browned with aged, no longer the crisp gold it was during his glory days, is a reminder of his dreams for me. Though my grandfather is no longer present in the physical world, his presence is showing in my everyday life. During my late night music jams, I still pull out his old pal, and begin to dream of the adventures they two must have taken. More than the rust, and more than the tears that always rain on its old green case, the trumpet that rests on my bed is my grandfather. Old, but wise. Used, but not worn. Holding its delicate valves, and running my fingers over the engraved metal, this is where I feel my grandfather. With the sound his voice becoming more faint, this rusty trumpet is all I seem to have left of my best friend.