Band Concert

My wife and younger daughter picked me up from work today. It was dark, and a thin blanket of yesterday's snow lay on the ground. We drove to McDonald's and bought greasy food to reward my younger daughter for her brave performance yesterday at the dentist. She had a baby tooth pulled to make way for an adult tooth that was having trouble establising its own territory. At home we gobbled what we hadn't consumed in the car and, with my son and older daugter, the five of us drove to the older kids' middle school a few blocks from our house across the river. I studied the honor rolls for each grade posted in a display case just inside the entrance. My sixth grade daughter made "High" honor roll in the first quarter, and my son was listed on the "Regular" honor roll. They are good well rounded kids and it is gratifying that they are doing well academically as well. Sometimes I give my son, an eighth grader, a hard time. I want him to understand that grades will be important in high school, but I also don't want him to drive himself too hard. I think I took grades too seriously in high school. It's difficult to find the right balance between workaholism and bumhood. Or is it?

My older daughter plays flute in the band with about seventy other sixth graders. The band teacher is a young man with dark hair and glasses, who is kind, bright, and has a good touch with the kids. The principal introduced my wife, who is co-president of the parent-teacher group, so she could announce a couple of fund raising events. Then the director stepped to the podium, the musicians prepared their instruments, and the band launched into a spirited rendition of Hot Crossed Buns. Perhaps thirty minutes later - who can say? - the last note wafted through the gymnasium, and we retired to the cafeteria for ice cream at a dollar a pop, which was one of the fundraisers that my wife had announced. I joked with one friend, a skier and biker, who was volunteering at the feed trough, steadily scooping out mint chip. I spoke with another friend whose father died this month in Chicago. Perhaps he had lived a great life, was older, and the statistics didn't promise anything more, nevertheless losing your father is incomprehensible until it happens and I had nothing to say to my friend. Life is precious and full of goodness. Why must we leave?

Another cluster of friends were discussing the Facebook relationship status of one of their sixth grade sons. His mother reported, "They had a crisis for about twenty four hours and their statuses were 'single', but then they worked it out."

The kids and I helped my wife count the money raised by the ice cream social - a hundred dollars and change. We stepped out into the cold, and we walked towards the car.