Amongst the plethora of both damaged and unused drumsticks that constitute my personal arsenal, there is one that remains though all the others be thrown out. It stays firmly ensconced among the other sticks, mallets, brushes, rods, & drum keys, despite the rather high turnover rate of the other residents of my stick bag. It is never played. It never gets used. Its purpose in the bag is symbolic and sentimental, reminding me about things more important than any music I could make with it if I chose to pull it out.
It was hand-carved from the wood of a tree by a great uncle
of mine during the Depression. He wanted to become a
drummer and, given the rough economic dynamics of the time, was required to
make his own drumsticks in order to pursue his dream. When he had to leave to fight in
the most horrific and widespread war this world has ever known, he gave the
stick to his parents and told them that should he not return, he wanted it to be
passed on until it reached the hands of another drummer in the family.
