From the Jaws of Defeat

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The day dawned like any other June morning, which is to say that Martin swatted the alarm when it went off, pulled the covers over his head, and was back asleep before the echoes died.

Mind you, it had nothing to do with the fact that it was June—he has the same problem during the other eleven months of the year. Martin’s father was a mattress; his mother was a pillow… and he was clearly reluctant to leave the bosom of his family.

My thankless task was to get him out of bed in spite of himself. Unfortunately, he had grown inured to my usual methods. A fresh approach was needed.

Anything by Sousa had become a cliche. The William Tell Overture was out for the same reason. There are certain portions of Tchaikovsky’s Fourth that work wonders when reproduced at maximum volume, but I needed something less lengthy than a hill symphony. Wagner was capable of writing rousing brass lines into his work, but I was beginning to worry that I might permanently damage Martin’s hearing if I continued blaring fortissimo trumpets into his ears.

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