An experience that shall never escape me is my first week of marching band camp in ninth grade. Held at my high school of the time, this two-week journey will fill your soul with glorious notes and alert your senses to the feeling of music. Everywhere you place yourself for those two weeks at camp, no matter where, you cannot get away from the essence of song and rhythm. Whether you're sitting in the heated band room with humidity that resembles walking through an ocean or on break for fifthteen minutes smoking harsh cigarettes fast enough to also get a refreshing drink of water that cools and moisturizes a heat-smacked throat, the music is everywhere, and everything is in some way associated to the music, even the pitcher's mound of the baseball field as it kicked up sand as we traversed across it during practice.
             Upon entering the school which reminds one of an ancient Greek temple with it's cracked pillars, but still beautiful structure, the all too familiar scent of wet paint rushes into your nose as you gaze around to look at the dusty floor and bare walls that will become covered in student propaganda like some silly mosaic. As you climb the chipped marble staircase, stray notes begin to stimulate your ears like that first hint in the morning that you mother is cooking breakfast.
             On the oven-like fourth floor in the band room, there are about seventy-five bustling teens playing instruments, talking, and laughing into a unique whirlpool of music that you can feel vibrating your very soul. Each different point of focus in that room has its own very definite individuality and flavor, and you can see that just by standing in the doorway! Mr. Lutz, the band instructor, is a very eccentric, short, balding man who has that wide spaced rumbling in his voice like a bullfrog. Very serious and to the point, he is also on of the nicest people that one could meet.
             When the members first get their music, w...