Log Drum

The walnut wood has a black cast over brown grain, like coal dust, like shadow. There is a slight sheen, a gleam in the yellow light of the room, an almost reflection on the surface of this small hand made wooden box. The top is carved into 6 tines, slightly dipped and arched, reaching for the mallet at the sweet spot, the place which, when struck, gives the purest tone. I’ve searched for this log drum for years, testing each one as I encountered it, not finding the tuning I like, always a tine that doesn’t ring, but this one was lovingly crafted by a small French man with an eye and an ear for beauty. Its name, Tamboa, is stamped deeply in its front. Mostly it sits on the also-walnut table I salvaged from the remnants of Mom’s furniture, sits darkly waiting with its mallets. I pick it up as if it were a cat, living and persnickety, place it on my lap, and tap it gently. The sound, at first, seems rough, dry, a scratching on the eardrum, but soon it seems to loosen and sing as I find the place to strike each tine, and I set the mallets to bouncing like small children on a trampoline, springing, the tunes like laughter rippling off the surface, bubbling and joyful. I lose all sense of self and let the drum speak, let its tones fill the room fill my head, supplant the thoughts that trap me otherwise.