I never cared much for trumpets. Their sound struck me as unnecessarily loud and forceful, as though designed to announce arrivals rather than make music. Even then, I preferred instruments that listened back.
Of all the instruments in our home, it was the harpsichord that held my attention. Its keyboard resembled that of a piano, but the sound came from tiny quills plucking strings hidden inside the wooden case. Press several keys together and wonderful chords appeared. Press them again and something resembling intention took shape.
Not all of my early musical efforts were so deliberate. At times, I armed myself with a spoon and banged out rhythmic experiments while drooling oatmeal onto sheets of music paper. These compositions were short-lived and mercifully unpreserved.
The harpsichord became my playground. In retrospect, I remain surprised that my parents allowed a two-year-old such unrestricted access to an instrument of real value. Perhaps they decided that enthusiastic noise at the keyboard was preferable to similar enthusiasm applied to cookware.
At that age, I had no understanding of what a “note” truly was. But I surely understood how to strike one.