I checked Emily’s band grade. It’s still one hundred.
Not bad, considering her flute has been riding in the trunk of our carpooling father's car between the end of last Friday night’s game and the end of Wednesday night band practice.
Emily thought she put it in her band uniform bag. A search Monday morning, to no avail.
Grandma would never have known, except one of those dratted siblings spilled the beans.
Grandma was amused. At supper Monday I asked “How did band practice go today?”
Emily glanced around. “Fine.”
“What did you play?”
“A Sharpie. I fingered along on a Sharpie.”
Ginny, the flute, came home with Emily Wednesday night, after band practice. There had been hope of getting it sooner, but all Emily’s attempts to get other folks involved fizzled.
So, Emily sat in the band room with possibly the best high school marching band director in Ohio on Monday, on Tuesday and on Wednesday, playing a Sharpie. She marched the routines Wednesday night, from six to nine, with the band director looking down from twenty feet in the air, playing a Sharpie. Her band grade is still one hundred.
“So, how do you play a Sharpie,” I asked at supper.
“I hold it high and finger it well.”
“It helps she’s short,” Hamilton added.
“Maybe they think you’re a piccolo,” from Laura.
“What color is your Sharpie?” I asked.
“Well, that explains everything.”