June 15, 2005
Conch
Several decades ago, our hostess had brought home from some south sea island a large conch shell. It held a prominent place on the mantle over the fire place and obviously an equally prominent place in her teenage memories of virile native boys who could make with it great resonant, Wagnerian sounds.
The business and professional women of our parish met each spring for a picnic lunch on the lawn of her home overlooking the woodland hills of the East Highland Rim. This was my first meeting with them into my nascent rectoring. Little did I know of the conch shell, let alone that it would become something of a test. Our hostess told its story to our silent audience and added emphatically that nobody had ever been able to blow it quite like those island natives when she’d first heard it. I thought I detected a faint blush as she recounted her warm memories.
Then, she turned to me, and, in a taunting voice, wondered if perhaps “our new rector” would like to try. The assembled women laughed in mild anticipation, then became very quiet as she handed me the shell.
I put it to my lips and blew, then suddenly, “the hills were alive with the sound… ” of the south seas. The astonished gasp of our hostess and, as well, through the audience, was almost palpable. My years as a trumpet player had never served me so well.