So I head out at 7:30 am to Abernathy by a very circuitous route, hugging tightly to the back bumper of the yellow school bus carrying half of the sixth grade band, lest I get hopelessly lost. Band competition: one of those inevitable yet unplanned for things in your visions of the future spent raising your kids.
I lamented to my friend Di that I'd have to miss the May PPW meeting as in my parental "Rock-Paper-Scissors" game of life "Kid" always beats "Selfish Wants." Plus, I had to drag my Youngest, as the love of my life was scheduled to work that day. Joy. I envisioned a recalcitrant child stonily harrumphing through the whole day-long event. My visions were not far from reality, either, but more on that later.
Di said, (and I love this about her -- her optimistic viewpoint that everything, EVERYthing can be used as a writing prompt!) "Ooooh, what a GREAT opportunity to get some good human-behavior observations down on paper!!!"
Isn't that cool? She looks at all situations as just one more potential writing exercise ;-)
Anyway, I said, "Oooh," back and thanked her for the gentle, optimistic reminder, packed my trusty, beat-up notebook into my purse and suddenly looked forward instead of askance at the prospect.
The day was rainy, chilly and generally miserable and Youngest, against my protest, had worn my old dojo robe over a tank top, shorts and sandals as a defense against the elements. (Notoriously under dressed, that one) Plus she had to go into the building sans dojo robe as it's really (no, really) not appropriate for public display.
She grumbled throughout the entire competition -- "I'm cold," I'm hungry," "this is boring," "are we leaving yet?" I attempted several times to appease her by running out to the car to get snacks we'd packed and an extra t-shirt I keep in the car, but she would not be appeased. She's nine, bless her heart. (If you are southern, you know what I'm really saying when I use the phrase "Bless her heart....")
After our sixth grade band performed their portion, I turned to Youngest and said, "Okay, chicky, they're done. You wanna stay in here or go out to the-," She cut in "To the car!"
We made our way out there, me gripping her tight to my side to try to keep her from plunging her sandaled foot into the puddles and the wind whipped us both inside the warm car without too much trauma. Through my crazy ninja-mutha skillz, I actually got her smiling again, (Yes. I do rock, thank you.) which turned out to be a good thing, because the band took their sweet time eating a school-provided lunch of which we two little lost souls were left out. (Oldest forgot to hand in the note explaining that her mom would be tagging along. Harrumph.)
I get home, and a couple days later Di asks, "So...did you get anything good written down in your human-behavior study? And, because I have a really short attention span, I said, "Huh?" She reminded me about the writing I was going to do at the band competition and I said, "Oh, yeah, that."
She said, "...what?" like she knew what was coming, and I told her the recaplet of the sojourn and how instead I spent my time entertaining Youngest. She commiserated, and we went on to talk about whatever meandering things we usually expend an hour on the phone hashing out.
Well, Di, I'm happy to tell you that Chance gave me another...well, chance. I attended the Spring Band Concert last night, and was able to get a mulligan on my Human Behavior Project, with the added bonus of the rest of the Jr. High band and High School bands too.
Here's what I observed: (names changed to some inane nickname to protect the innocent ;-)
Master: A voice like a strung willow branch, plucked; high, a bit tinny but not unpleasant. Unhurried yet abbreviated movements, controlled and devoid of dominance. He offers a smile of distracted elegance while his eyes take in all, registering neither disappointment nor relief.
Apprentice: Her brow creased in alarm, hand emerging slow as a turtle's head in tentative welcome. A smile spreads slow and reaches her eyes; her brow, however, misses the "all clear" sign.
Junior Officer: Is this the willow branch upon which Master's melodic voice is strung? Like a linear sigh he seems too insubstantial for gravity to hold him! Bending inward protecting wisps of logic and strength embedded in almost painfully thin veneer. Walking sheet music, "blink and you might miss him," he conceals more than the ink hieroglyphs scratched upon his surface. Close your eyes and open your ears. You'll see him as he is.
Trombone: His voice must have room, more than even the Tuba. Sliding forth, testing outer limits followed by eventual retreat to familiar places. He has vague ideas of the notes to play but -- unlike the other brass with buttons to press -- must feel his way to make the notes true.
Confidence came late but once he discerned the 'sweet spots' the underbrush cleared and the path -- which he thought he'd have to trail blaze -- had been there all along, waiting for him to find it. Distractions tempt him to unsure ways; will he lose the path or blaze new paths all his own?
Horn: He is uncomfortable with his voice. To cover, he's ever watchful of those who speak out confidently, counting mindlessly with sure toe taps, understanding the melodic scratches on the page. Fearful of playing a wrong note, unsure of the symbols others read with ease, he can hear it but cannot see the music.
Maybe he will surrender for a while, lay his voice aside, revel in the physical knowledge of pure sport. One day, on his way to the court a black line like the readings of a heart monitor will catch his eye. He'll stop, tilt his head, prick his ears and stare, focused on the line until the meaning emerges from the blur. He'll hear and see. His fingers will twitch out the interpretation of the line like a heart monitor read-out. The court forgotten for a while, he'll allow his hand to find his voice again.
People Concerto in A minor, by Grief, Good. ;-)
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