Good morning,
It's 36° here on the prairie at 7am, and a blustery breeze is producing a wind chill of 27°, which had me out of bed very early. It's coming at us straight up from the north and it feels like quite the slap in the face after last week's remarkable temperatures in the 70's and 80's. Tonight's temps (ALERT!) are supposed to dip well into the teens, and I just am going to have to keep my fingers crossed that our many daffodils and hyacinths that are in bloom will survive. There's no way that I can cover them all, as they dot many areas on the property. I'll throw some tarps over the rock garden and at least I know that those flowers will all be safe and sound. But I wonder about the honeysuckles and lilacs and forsythias, all of which are blossoming to beat the band. There isn't a thing I can do about it, as Mother Nature rules the roost.
Tomorrow morning at this time, I'll be on my way to the airport, where I will embark on a week-long journey to the Tampa area. It's time to go check up on the Pops. Hubby is staying behind because, as he puts it, "Someone's gotta feed the world." In other words, he has to work. Once I'm in Florida, Pops and his girlfriend will take me to their club several times, I'm sure, where I will listen to more polkas than I ever thought imaginable. And mind you, it's not just ANY polka music, it's honky polka music. Did you know that they come in different flavors? I didn't.
I might not enjoy polkas, but I DO like to watch my father enjoying his music. He spent his life, from the time he was a teenager until he was ripe into his seventies, playing the drums professionally. By day he slaved in the factory, but every single weekend night would find him keeping the beat in some club or hotel. He doesn't play anymore, but that doesn't mean he still isn't carrying that drum kit around inside of him. Even if a single note isn't audible to anyone else, his brain is constantly cranking out imaginary song after song. His body sways in motion, his feet and fingers continually tap the beat to whatever melody happens to be spinning in his brain. When he actually has a live band to listen to, it's virtually impossible for him to sit still. Up he and his sweetie go, twirling 'round and 'round the dance floor. Music pulsates through his veins and as a result, he handed me my future occupation of band director on a silver platter.
I didn't grow up with my dad. He and my mother were divorced when I was very young, but I did go visit him on Sundays. It took several years, but eventually my dad and stepmother were able to save enough money to put a down payment on a very small house in the 'burbs. That tinderbox was his absolute pride and joy. When my brother and I would make our weekly visits, he would sometimes have his drum kit set up for me in the basement. I would take the transistor radio down there in the dungeon, crank up the tunes and wail away. And I remember that it was while I was in that musty cellar that on one Sunday afternoon, I decided I wanted to join the school band.
My mom signed the permission slip for me to start music lessons, and as I was halfway through the fifth grade, I was already behind the eight ball. Most of my class had already begun their musical careers during the previous year. But hey, it wasn't my fault that I wasn't thinking about band instruments in the fourth grade. I was busy imagining being kissed by Mr. Blake, one of the teachers in my elementary school and by Paul McCartney. My mind was already fully engaged and occupied.
I proudly clutched that slip of paper and trotted down to the dark recesses of the backstage in the auditorium. One could find Mr. Benware sitting behind the curtains, smoking cigarettes and teaching his students to vibrate reeds, bang on drums and pucker lips into metal mouthpieces. He was a very short, stout man and he had just a few wisps of incredibly long hair, which he combed over the top of his very bald head.
"I wanna play the drums."
These words have been uttered by more school children than you could ever imagine. You really have NO idea.
"You can't play the drums. I have more than enough of them."
"I wanna play the French horn."
To this day, I still don't understand where THAT one came from. What fifth grade kid even knows that this instrument is in existence? It must have been one of those Ralph moments. Remember the movie "The Christmas Story", where Ralphie is sitting on Santa's lap and he goes blank and asks for a football instead of his beloved Red Rider Air Rifle? That was me, deer in the headlights.
"Nope, you can't play that, either. Have enough of those, too."
"Well, what DO you have?"
And he pulled off the shelf this beat-up old case that looked like it had gone through the Civil War. Inside was the most disfigured cornet imaginable. It really did appear as if someone had set it down on the ground, bell to the floor, and an elephant had come along and sat on the thing. But from that moment on, I was smitten. Now I REALLY understood the definition of love. Silly Mr. Blake could go trotting off into the sunset. I had found music.
So thanks, Pops. I'll go to your club tomorrow night and will smile and listen to your music that's really not my cup of kielbasa and watch your feet swirl around the floor. I will be grateful for your gift, that blood of yours that pulses through my veins. But just so you know. I always felt that my brother got the short end of the stick. It's no wonder that he has still has issues, being forced to play the stupid accordion.
No comments:
Post a Comment