When I first took a poetry class in college, I was a bit behind the curve in learning connotations. There was the time I innocently wrote a poem involving lilies... never mind.

Well, I have received another lesson in connotation, from the last person I expected -- an awesome drummer who writes the world's corniest timpani poems (when he can be bothered to write poetry at all). “O great copper bowl...”

It happened at the end of the summer music festival, and the evening sun shone through the leaves to turn the stage green. There were nine people waiting for me at Baskin Robbins, and I was the only person helping The Boss to load everything up again. Stands, chairs, celesta, a ton of percussion instruments, scattered clothespins, you name it.

As if explaining this phenomenon, The Boss said to me, “Well, you're half timpanist, you know.” And suddenly, “timpanist” means more than just “somebody who knows how to play the mightiest instrument on the face of the earth.” It also means “a reliable and helpful person.” It meant I could sympathize with the lot of a poor drummer who is stuck hauling everything around, just because he has the biggest, heaviest instruments. I'd been there myself in band, so I knew what it was like.

Like missing out on ice cream and getting something better.