Striking the Right Note at the End of the School Year

Nothing signaled the impending end of the school year quite like the fourth and fifth grade Spring Sing, Band and String Concert. Or, as my husband and I used to call it, “Name That Tune”. It’s not that we didn’t have an appreciation for music- we can be equally moved by Gershwin or an Aaron Copeland symphony. It’s just that knowing our children’s level of talent in this regard, we had no expectations. We were quite confident that neither of our children was a future Yoyo Ma.

It was best to arrive early to these types of events, particularly if you had any intention of filming your darling’s performance. Twenty minutes before the start of the concert, the front row would look like the phalanx of photographers awaiting a presidential press conference. We parents, rushing from work and long commutes, would exchange greetings as we shuffled down the aisles to take our places.

Gathered together like reluctant church-goers, we would peruse the evening’s program with an “Oh my God!” realization that we were going to be trapped there for the better part of the evening. We would realize that we hadn’t had dinner; The cookies in the lobby, reserved for the performers post performance, took on a new significance.

Onstage, the school principal would, once again, explain just how to go about emptying one’s wallet in order that the school might continue to offer this valuable school program.

And then, the music teacher would take the stage.

I believe there’s a special place in God’s pantheon for elementary school music teachers. No matter how many years they’ve been teaching, or how many times they have heard a particular song, they can still look skyward, as if heavenly angles have spoken, and say “Did you hear that?”.

Frankly, what I heard was the sound of a metal rake being dragged across a chalkboard. Fortunately, my teeth were so firmly gritted together that the thought would pass before I blurted anything out and did any real damage.

Bunkered in our chairs like a deranged infantry, we would endure the onslaught to our ears. The around-the-world medley would include the beloved French “Frere Jacques”; the Japanese “Sakura, Sakura” (If the Japanese had played this way they might have won WWII); “Jaws”, a nod to our Hollywood heritage; and the ever popular “You’ll Never Walk Alone.” Nobody ever ‘walks alone’ after this concert; we would run to our cars like deer ahead of a forest fire.

It’s usually quite the night. Our daughter would saw away at her violin as if attempting to start a fire with two sticks and the hair of the girl seated in front of her. Our son, in the brass section, would inflate his cheeks to a size not normally seen outside of a family of rodents.

Throughout, there would be smatterings of enthusiastic applause as a soloist stepped forward, or we parents recognized a melody. Every now and then you would hear a parent or two murmuring, like the proud parents in The Music Man, “That’s my Johnny!”And that’s pretty much what I thought as my husband and I were greeted by our two children, smiling, excited and glowing with a sense of accomplishment and pride: “Those are our kids!”