Meanwhile, in other news, The Indoor Band Show

I saw earplugs distributed.

I left the hearing aids at home.

The band, streaming down the aisles,

assembling onstage.

There are more than two hundred in the band.

Onstage.

Up the stairs.

And, in the balconies.

Instead of the regular tall marching hat, many wore costume hats.

That's our trumpeter there. The short one.

More hats.

The best hat!

The kid.

Only two playoff games left.

With luck, only one.

Run around, run around, I run around

A week ago I said to a mother new to the neighborhood, a child in marching band means you are married to the band from mid July until the football team looses a playoff game, hopefully earlier than the championship game on Thanksgiving. 

"Actually, Gramma," interposed Laura, "you are not married to the band. You are only engaged." 

She's right.

I deal with three hour practice once a week, but games every Friday night are beyond the pale. Every week I read a new email asking for volunteer parents for concessions or bus monitors or some other fool thing. When pigs fly! This band grandmother will never be out in sub-cold weather on behalf of the band.

I found a lovely little web site that recaps the plays and scores--if there is a volunteer score keeper. I see this year the job has devolved to the coach to keep the site updated. It's the second quarter of tonight's first playoff game, and the score has changed hands three or four times. Must be exciting, jumping up and down and rooting for the home team.

But I keep an eye on the quarter and minutes so I have an idea of when to get in line at the high school to pick up our little trumpet player. In my defense, she knows less about football than I know, including players running on the field means the game started.

Married or not, band consumes a lot of time. This week, band and other stuff consumed so much of my week that a couple of projects at work were niggling my conscience. Tonight I dropped Laura at the band door, finally wearing sweats under her uniform, and went to work for a couple of hours. 

The projects are put to bed, and I am home, and waiting to leave to get in line. It is 9:15 pm, the score board web site just posted half time. The home town boys are losing by three points! Be still my heart; for the first time in five years post season may end in one game! Another ninety minutes plus time outs, plus two bands performing, and I can leave.

When I left work, it was dark, dark, dark, and only a tiny sliver of moon. This tree had an eerie glow. Come back tomorrow to see if my relationship with marching band is over for this year.

What goes to band camp must come home

Last Sunday

Yesterday, marching in from the buses in the parking lot.

Our trumpeter:

middle row, third from the field.

We can still see her!

Third row, sixth from left!

There are some old friends here, too.

Joe, first row, fourth from left.

Liam, first row, 13th from left.

And today, two ibuprofen and a heating pad for a sore back.

Emily took all the pictures on her phone. These kids move too fast for me.

A good day yesterday

I went to lunch with Beth and Ruth yesterday. We had a very nice server, who took good care of Ruth and me while we waited for Beth.  I screwed up my rudeness courage, told the server I liked her haircut and could I take a picture to show my granddaughter. She went down to camera level for the front, then the back, and told us in cosmetology terminology exactly how the cut is made. That was over my head.

She is growing out the same basic cut as Emily has, and this is its current iteration. After school I showed it to Emily, who needs a haircut. Emily would leave the long side a bit longer, but have the back cut identically. However, she is waiting for the teal to fade more so she can have it dyed purple (I think). I like the cut so much I’ll do it myself, next trip to the barber.

It’s only a week since the holidays ended, a week back to school and work. I try very hard to focus on the good and bright spots of being an old grandma in charge of two abandoned girls, and work on the hard spots in the background. Offstage. The second semester of the school year began Monday. It is going well for Emily; so well she has almost left us in spirit and is waiting for her body to transport to college, too.

I asked her jokingly if she has selected her roommate yet, and learned she is about to open that module of the Hiram website. I saw all this happening in my mind’s eye last fall. Band uniforms had to go to the cleaner after the last football game, and the dry cleaner receipt turned in. Seniors, however, had to turn in the uniform, too. I asked about the Memorial Day parade. “I won’t be marching in that!” replied the young woman who has lived and breathed marching band since I dropped her off for camp, four years ago.

But I can see the sadness index rising for Laura. She was ten when she landed here, a hardened little soul with no father, an absentee mother, the tail end of a string of siblings not much interested. I didn’t help a lot in the beginning. I treated Emily and Laura as a unit, sending them to the same summer and after school activities. Emily, of course, flourished and Laura tagged along. My great epiphany a couple of years ago sent Laura off on her own, to drama and art classes. She had the courage to try for and be accepted as a sixth grader to the jazz band.

Laura’s her own person now, with long hair of many colors, thanks to her art box of felt markers. She wears tall boots and denim jackets, and hasn’t resolved losing her first, false “boyfriend” last summer. Her father showed up for the first time in a year at Christmas and her sister is leaving in a few months. It’s tough to be fourteen. Her sad little face has come home no happier all week, and no changing it.

I climbed the many steps to Mrs. P’s art studio yesterday to fetch Laura, rounded the corner and heard peals of laughter from the studio. Mrs. P. hurried out. “I have to block you right here, while Laura finishes up. It’s a secret.” Mrs. P is half my size, and I laughed out loud. Laura came out laughing, and I got a hug. Next class is the big reveal of the fashion project they have worked on since summer. Emily and Aunt Janice are invited, too.

Laura’s Christmas blues are not banished, but they are lifting. Regular routine is a good thing, Mrs. P and her art class one of my salvations. We will work harder at happy these next several months; Emily will only be a phone call away, Laura will go to marching band camp in August and we’ll see what she thinks of being the only child.

There are no paper report cards during the year; the electronic cards were released yesterday. No matter the other issues in their lives, both these girls stay focused at school. Perhaps it’s the best constant in their lives. Each made the honor roll, with distinction. And Laura aces gym, now. It’s a long time since fifth grade, when she failed gym because she wouldn’t do push-ups.

Laura - A in gym

Emily

The Winter Band Concert and Marzipan

It has been three weeks since the great defeat put one loss in the football team's record. In that time the bands prepared their winter concert. White Band, Blue Band, Wind Symphony and Wind Symphony Percussion Ensemble. Close to two hundred youngsters.

All the bands were excellent, in my opinion, although Emily did point out they played fewer and easier songs. I have no idea. I left my hearing aids home and enjoyed myself immensely. The picture I regret not taking--the Percussion Ensemble, complete with Santa hats, except the director, who wore a grinch hat and a delightful accompanying grin.

Before.

The White Band.

Flutes are in the vicinity of the center right Poinsettia.

Emily is second row, second chair, this year.

You don't need to be blond to play flute,

except, it seems, to play

chairs one through three.

This young lady was on the other side of the podium.

Taking care of that hair must be difficult,

But isn't it magnificent!

Today the postal service brought me a package from my elf in Wisconsin. "Oh, Ann, you needn't have," I thought. I pulled several little parcels from the packing, and a big one. Little ones first, and they turned out to be marzipan. Ann knows I'd do a U-turn for marzipan. Isn't the Santa just a delight!

The big parcel was half a dozen suet cakes for my flying pigs. What a pleasant surprise.

A great run

The question is answered. Will they never lose? But they have. The undefeated boys in blue suffered their first loss of the season last night. Marching band can take their uniforms to the dry cleaner and hang them up until the Memorial Day Parade.

Concert band has its first performance December 18th !

The pressure is off

Taking Emily and Joe to inspection last night, there were groups of people at every drive and intersection along the long, long route to school. They jumped and cheered and waved homemade signs at passing autos, exhorting the team to victory and its fans to cheer loudly. The enthusiasm made me smile and wave back. There was no such joy from the rest of the car.

We passed police cars staged along the route. I remembered the newspaper said the team would be given a police escort the several miles from the school to the freeway. The band and team busses would not leave for another ninety minutes, but quite a crowd was assembling. I thought how nice the whole send off would be.

The game was televised on a very local television station and at half time Jan and I tuned in to watch the band perform. They are very good. The home team led by ten or fifteen points.

Toward the end of the third quarter I wandered by again and Jan spun the dial. The boys in blue and white were up by far more than twenty points. I called my son-in-law and simply said there was little chance of a loss, so we needed to discuss options. He asked for the inspection time Saturday and calculated what time they would leave Cincinnati to arrive on time.

The stony face that came through the door at midnight confirmed the probable victory. Miss Emily avoided me so completely I finally asked her to stand still while I delivered my news. She went to bed without a word, and I stifled a grin.

I had an email this morning from the chief band parents, explaining the great victory and providing a link to a written form to request absence from next Saturday’s game. It can be turned in only on Monday; any later and the absence would be unexcused. That did make me smile. I wonder how many will not perform.

These footballers are two victories from a divisional state championship. There’s a lot of skin in this, including the grandma who drove two band members to practice or games three times a week. Let’s all cheer the team, and the band that plays at half time in their support. They've gone a long way.

Will they never lose?

The football team played every game this season, as is expected, and the band played every half time, in support of the team. And the parents and grandparent of the very few band members and football players without personal transport have made every pickup and delivery of those select few. The drill has been in effect since the last week of July, in fact, when the well organized parents of both kinds of player began their annual ritual of living vicariously.

Now it is the end of the third week of November and no, it has not ended. For the first time in longer than I can be bothered to look up, the football team is undefeated. An interview with the coach made the top half of the first page of the local paper. He’s proud of his “guys,” citing names and statistics so far back that only football parents emerged with eyes unglazed.

The season ending so gloriously, what next? Why, sudden death playoffs, of course. With the bands playing every half time, in support of the teams.  Our weather has turned so on the kids that the band director is toying with letting the students march in warm street clothes, the decision for uniforms to be made at the last minute, so bring the uniform, too. Personally I believe that is her bribe to keep her band up to full force as her award winning band has yet to appear on the field in street clothes.

Tomorrow is the third sudden death for the football team; they survived the team that took them out last year, and one other. Tomorrow’s game is against a team they defeated already during the school year. The team is becoming quite cocky, Emily reports, but that goes two ways. Their confidence can carry them to another victory; their overconfidence can end the season. We’ll see.

Bringing me to the present. If the team wins tomorrow, they play again next Saturday. Thanksgiving weekend. Emily began softening me up by reciting all the people she knows who have plans for that weekend. Oddly, they’re all band members, not football players. She was, of course, working up to her Thanksgiving weekend, when one of her parents will be lifting the children from the shelf for the first time in three or four months, and taking his “family” across state for a long weekend with his partner’s parents.

“I guess,” Emily said, “I’ll just have to tell the band director I have a family emergency.”

“Was this a known possibility when you joined marching band?”

“Well, yes, but I would like to spend the weekend with my family.”

I let her bask in that thought for several days before I told her if there was another playoff game that weekend, she would be marching.

The bedroom on the other side of the hall exudes grumpy since then. Given her twelve years of religious upbringing prior to occupying that bedroom I shake my head and wonder when the moral compass will engage.

Marching band is not for sissies

Friends and I have compared aches these last several days and mentioned the old saw, “Getting old is not for sissies.” But driving my two band charges to school in time for inspection tonight I realized these young performers are the real brave souls.

It’s been a long time since band camp, way back at the end of July. Since then I've faithfully transported Emily and Joe, twice a week; band practice on Wednesday, the game on Friday, sometimes a band show on Saturday. Joe’s Mom or Dad has as faithfully brought them back.

Last year Joe worried he wasn't up to scratch, but this year he knows he is. He’s moved from critiquing himself to critiquing every band they have or may play against. He’s an OCD youngster with a photographic memory. I can hear the pages in his mind turn as he ranks bands by size, by sound, by director, by style, by uniform, by music.

He’s also a history buff, and in the beginning of the season we had lovely discussions of the merits of various American presidents. But for the last couple of months, all we've heard from the back seat is the merit of the various school bands, on any feature, and in any order he’s using that night.  One night I only had Joe; Emily was already at school. “May I sit in front?” he inquired. “Absolutely!” “Ah, this is much better; we can talk more easily.” I love Joe.

When we discussed history or civics, conversation was two and even three way, when Emily joined in. Now we are obsessing on bands I don’t give a flying blue and white cape with silver braid, and Joe holds the floor, with an occasional remark from Emily.

Joe is still somewhat in awe of the band leader, how well the Code Red will go that night, if their section will be yelled at, how unfair the direction can be. We spent a long time on the rigidness of “march every step, play every note,” and then it went away as a topic. I asked if he was no longer concerned about his ability to do that and Joe replied actually, he realized Bev would know if he marched every step, but not if he played every note, so he has settled on the former as the best course of action.

The squad leaders go to the concession stands during the games and return with snacks for the band members. Joe is a donut fan; he knows what is available at every stadium and their rank in his appreciation. Tonight is a home field playoff and he loves the concession donuts. “And these are the big ones!” he moaned from the back seat. “Donuts?” I asked. “No! The big games. The concessions will be too crowded!” I couldn't explain why his lack of reference was causing me to laugh so hard, but he wasn't fussed.

As we pulled out of his street a light mist began accumulating on the windshield. The closer the stadium, the harder it rained. “Did you know about this?” I asked. “Oh, yes,” from Emily. “It will rain until seven, then turn to snow,” from Joe.

Marching band is not for sissies.

Big band blues

My band tolerance is a struggle after these past three days. Some egos are benefiting from three nonstop days of grandmother obligation, and mine isn't one.

Saturday there was a band show, about ten bands, performing their hearts out. I saw one, in year one. I get it, and will be the cheerful front end runner; delivery only, no pick up. (Joe’s mom dropped Emily at 11:30 p.m. Saturday night, after the show.)

There were two unscheduled, until last Wednesday, shows the last two days. The first, on The Green on Sunday had meeting instructions intelligible only to a long time Hudson resident. Similarly to the Williamsburg trip this past spring, “Everyone knows.”  It required four emails to get correct directions.

I spent almost four hours in the parking lot waiting for the band to march back from The Green. In truth, only the one third of the band that actually performed. More on that later.

Finally, I got up before six this morning to deliver my two band members to the school to perform at eight for the new teacher orientation. There are more than three hundred members of this band. I watched fewer than fifty be dropped at the curb; the rest parked their big cars and went in.

Driving Emily and Joe back home this morning, so I could actually go to work, I listened to their list of who will not be on the bus when school starts on Wednesday, because driver’s licenses have been obtained.  No need to flog this subject again; these children do not need to be driving cars for other children to jump on  hoods and trunks.

Emily already floated the learner’s permit idea to adult family and friends, hoping to drum up support. It was a tactical error in several ways, not the least the unabashed attempt to end run grandma. It called forth my best “play the hand you’re dealt” soliloquy, which does not include a car.

The little mini-band performance I chauffeured Sunday evening was another revelation. Looking around the assembled players I recognized many section leaders, not much else. I asked Emily later if her presence had been required. No, she was there “to help the band.” Further drilling revealed only section leaders and the drum line was required to perform Sunday. Between the lines I saw she intends to be a section leader next year. Perhaps with enough responsibility to require a car.

Will being a section leader change your band grade? No. Will being a section leader get you a scholarship in chemistry, biology or engineering? No.

Perhaps it’s good to aspire to being a section leader, but I doubt it. No grandma I know will put in the extra hours and car expense.

I asked who came to the mini band show Sunday night. Some old people, some band parents and some people who were high school seniors during her last two years. I was stunned. Do they have a life? Or will they just become more band parents.

Hudson gazebo on the green

Curmudgeons and parades

Dear old Walt; all the doctoring he abandoned two or three years ago caught up with him. He had a right side stroke this time, his steering wheel arm! Or, as Mark told him, "Well, old man, I'll be driving you to doctor appointments and drug stores." He's also become a full fledged diabetic and won't be leaving the hospital until that is under control. Thank you for all your good wishes. Let's see if he takes his medicine, or devises some new workaround.

Today was Memorial Day, the day of picnics and parades. I sat in the hot sun for the fun of taking pictures for three hours, but I had picture taking to amuse myself. Far too many follow, but don't feel obligated.

Nine am. Overnight spot stakers on all four green quadrants.

Just waiting.

Gazebo bunting.

Chair reclamation.

I think she was the nanny.

"Another year, another parade." "Right, son."

Check the hair ribbons.

Filling up.

Color guard.

Our band, under the leadership of my favorite band director.

Coming.

Going.

The mayor.

The National Guard.

Look at the size of this young man's feet.

The band stops at the clock tower for the national anthem.

A small selection of paraders. There were half a dozen convertibles with scholarship winners. 

A man of the cloth and his Harley.

A lot of very nice cars.

A lot of photos of little girls sticking landings.

This young driver paced her own car.

This young driver's car had brakes by mom.

A hand up.

Another landing.

Boy scouts.

An old car.

Cleveland Firefighters Memorial Pipes and Drums.

And so much more.

I hope you had a good holiday, too.