The Beat of My Own Drum Read Online Free PDF Page A

came from a large family whose father left home and how his mother couldn’t cope with so many children.
    “I know what you’re going through, because my kid brother Coke and I were sent to an orphanage for a couple of years,” he’d tell them, always choking up a little at that point before forcing a smile. “But we overcame the odds. It was in the orphanage that I first discovered art and where I developed my love of music. I’ve always drawn and painted, but once I started playing music, I knew that would be my life. So we’re going to play you some music today and see if you like it.”
    “What did you say your name was, mister?” one of the children might ask.
    “You can call me Pops,” he’d say quietly. “Everybody does.”
    Whenever I heard him say that, I realized what a father figure he was to them and to us all. Pops’s heart is huge; he and Moms have more than enough love to go around. It’s like the whole world is their family. His childhood always served to remind us that even though we sometimes thought we had it hard, we didn’t know what real hardship was.
    Inspired by his words, we’d gather around and start jamming for the kids and encouraging them to join in. They were a tough crowd. Despite their initial resistance (and the few who refused to have anything to do with us), we managed to get most playingsomething. Putting a smile on the faces of those frightened, damaged kids made it all worthwhile.
    The worst part was having to pack up and say good-bye. The children, especially the tiny tots and usually the girls, would cling to us—especially Moms, who can’t walk by someone without giving them a hug. “Please take us home with you? Can’t you adopt us?” they’d beg, their arms wrapped around her legs. That part was heartbreaking, especially for Pops, who used to push the cuter Coke to the front whenever prospective parents came to visit their orphanage. Nobody ever picked the Escovedo brothers.
    Tearfully, I’d ask Pops, “Can’t we take one of them home?”
    His eyes moist, he’d shake his head and remind us to smile and wave as we got into the car and left them all behind, with the promise that we’d be back soon. I’ll never forget their faces as we pulled around the corner out of view.
    It was an image that would stay with me always.

4 . Pitch
    The quality of a sound governed by the rate of vibrations
All that’s left are memories
Of how it used to be
We can’t erase the past
We can’t change our destiny
“FADED PHOTOGRAPHS”
SHEILA E
    M y earliest childhood memories reflect an almost pitch-perfect life, complete with caring parents, close siblings, and an abundance of love and laughter to go around. Music was always at the core of it, and whenever the adults stopped jamming because they couldn’t play anymore and needed to take a break, we kids would rush to the instruments like it was a game of musical chairs.
    Sure, there were times when we’d have liked more meat on the table, shoes that weren’t so scuffed, or a real vacation. I remember wanting a Barbie doll so badly but having to wait years until I wasgiven a secondhand one. I also desperately wanted to be a Girl Scout at my school, but my parents couldn’t afford the uniform. It took me a long time to understand that they really didn’t have the money. Nevertheless, it was hard to see my friends going off in their uniforms, earning their little pins, or talking about the camping trips I couldn’t go on.
    Then I heard about traffic school, where you learned to walk younger children across the street. It came with a free uniform and even a hat, so I jumped at the chance and ended up being promoted to sergeant. I had to stand to attention and press a button before ferrying the little kids across. It was a job that required a lot of responsibility, and I was so proud to be in charge.
    The golden days of my childhood changed for me when we moved to what I think of as that house, a duplex on Thirteenth