EPISODE 2 EPISODE 2I ran through the doors of the elementary school and breathlessly scribbled my name on the sign-in sheet.
“Would you please tell me where the music room is?” I asked, somewhat embarrassed not to know. Lilly had been a student there for two years while our family was stationed in Stuttgart, Germany, but this was my first visit to the music room. In fact, I had barely set foot in the school all year, but Lilly begged me to please show up for this event, the recorder recital for her music class.
“Down the hall to the end, make a right, second door on your left,” the secretary answered without looking up from her computer.
Mindful of school rules about running in the halls, I scurried to the music room, hoping the fourth-grade recital had not yet begun, even though I was ten minutes late.
As the third child, Lilly definitely got the short end of the stick, as our interest in school events waned over the years. The week before, I had forgotten to pick up Lilly from school. And it was raining. When I realized my error, I rushed out of our apartment, jumped into the minivan, and gunned it up the hill toward the school. Just then I saw her, happily running alone down the sidewalk, arms outstretched and eyes closed, her backpack flopping under the bob of her sandy brown hair. As fat raindrops splatted on her sweet face, she grinned from ear to ear with pure joy.
That was Lilly. She deserved so much more than we gave her. I knew I had to be at her recorder recital.
Wearing my workout clothes, a muddy pair of running shoes, and a visor to cover my bed head, I hoped the recital would be over quickly, so I could get to the base commissary to do some grocery shopping before the lunchtime rush.
I found the music room and gingerly turned the doorknob until it clicked. As I pushed it open, I could see everyone in the room looking back at me—parents crammed against the wall in folding chairs and students standing on two rows of risers.
Lilly was on the top row. Her eyes widened when she saw me at the door, and she bit her bottom lip to control a grin.
“COME IN!” the music teacher bellowed from her seat behind the keyboard. Startled, I scuttled into the room and took the first seat I could find, as the teacher continued her program.
“Again! From the top! Stand up straight! Hands at your sides!” she yelled at the group of twenty boys and girls from Ms. Farnsworth’s fourth grade class. She pounded out the notes on the keyboard, and the kids started singing at her head-bobbed cue.
“Be the best, best, best you can be, be, be!” they wailed, some with deadpan stiffness, and others with dramatic inflection. The song entailed a complicated Bingo-like start-stop game in succeeding verses and a few of the kids flubbed and shouted out “best” or “be” when they were supposed to be silent.
At the end of the song, the teacher’s deep voice boomed from behind the keyboard, “I give you a two-point-five out of four! The only thing I accept in this classroom is a four! Backs straight! AGAIN, from the top!” I jerked out of my slouch and sat up obediently, afraid to move. I was taken aback by this teacher’s demanding treatment, and I tried to see in my peripheral vision if the other parents looked as concerned as I felt. But they all sat straight-backed at attention, as though afraid to look at each other.
As the kids made their next attempt, I was mystified by their cheerful obedience to this drill-sergeant of a music teacher. They belted the tune out in perfect order this time, each of them with their eyes locked on their leader, only occasionally glancing at a parent out of sheer personal pride.
“Now THAT’S a four! Like I always tell you boys and girls, you don’t have to BE the best, but you must DO your best every time!” The children beamed and looked to their parents for appreciation.
“COME IN!” the teacher repeated, and I noticed a father in uniform sneaking in the back and taking a seat. He exchanged blown kisses with his daughter, who radiated joy over seeing him there.
“Parents and students, sing the chorus!” The music teacher proceeded to lead us all in a peppy rendition of “You’re a Grand Old Flag,” complete with choreographed hand movements. Through three repeats, she belted out verses in her sharp booming voice, with a rumbling vibrato akin to Ethel Merman, while we all fumbled to achieve perfection in the cramped music room.
“Excellent! That’s the best you have done! I am so proud of you!” she roared at everyone. The kids seemed to love their teacher’s brawny leadership and relentless drive and basked in her praise for their accomplishments.
The teacher ordered the kids into new positions, and each one approached her in turn to pick up their assigned recorder flute. In two neat rows they sat, gripping their little plastic instruments as they awaited her instruction.
She snapped out instructions as the kids whipped their recorders into position like a well-rehearsed drill team.
“I’m a task master, and I make no apologies for it! Now, don’t hurt your parents’ ears!” she roared. The irony made me giggle. The kids blew a surprisingly soothing version of “Hot Cross Buns” into the recorders with only an occasional rogue squeaky note.
Despite this teacher’s sovereignty over this tight ship of a crowded classroom, I found myself being seized by tenderness and nearly tearing up. Why? I’ve heard “Hot Cross Buns” a million times, not exactly a sentimental ditty. I’ve been to so many seemingly insignificant little school events. But as I sat there watching Lilly working so hard to make me proud, I realized these moments were fleeting and precious.
Feelings of guilt over my grubby outfit and my failure to bring a camera were interrupted when the teacher jumped from her seat and yelled, “Good job! I am very proud of you! BUCKET!” At that command, the beaming students brought their instruments up one by one and dropped them neatly into a blue bucket.
“When your name is called, come up and get your certificate and pencil! Parents: CLAP!” she ordered, and I was again seized by emotion watching my sweet little girl so happy to receive a symbolic piece of paper and a ten-cent pencil with music notes painted on it.
“DISMISSED!” our leader yelled one last time. As we exited the classroom in orderly fashion, I found Lilly and gave her a long squeeze.
“Thank you for coming Mommy,” she muffled into my shirt.
“I wouldn’t have missed this for the world,” I answered, truthfully.