Goodbye, Part II

It's not over until the faith community sings, apparently. Since I was present at the coin toss of the IFC Festival, the new Stake Music Chair felt that it was only appropriate that I stick around to award the trophy...so to speak. So today, I carpooled a big group of youth down to Assumption Catholic Church and stuck around for the half hour first rehearsal, the one and a half hour second rehearsal, the insane 15 minute snack and potty break, and the one and a half hour concert.

Actually, since the terrific youth pianist/organist who played for Stake Conference had a doctor's note, I filled in at the piano too. I wasn't sorry to be at the party. The youth sang beautifully. They sang "My Shepherd Will Supply My Need." Set in the middle of lots of befuddled modern music accompanied by everything from electric guitars and bongos to shekeres, their pure sound was extraordinarily beautiful. After they finished singing, the audience literally sighed before applauding wildly.

Not that the rest of the concert was bad. On the contrary, I think this was the best year ever. The 300 voice mass choir sang two Shaker hymns and Vivaldi's Gloria, which I hope was as fun for the youth as it was for me. And many of the choirs, despite their bizarre musical choices, sang well and entertained. One of the greatest moments was at the end. I had looked ahead and noticed that the last choir was singing one of Tom's favorite folk songs, originally written and performed by a local musician who has made it sort of big. About 10 minutes before they came on, I realized that SHE was going to sing the song, and she did. She plugged in to her massive sound system, did a quick sound check, and launched into a fantastic performance, backed by the 40 voice Unitarian choir. They mostly oohed and aahed, and she mostly played and sang a solo. She sounded even better than she does on the iPod. I was so sad that Tom wasn't there--he has supported me every year for this extravaganza, in whatever way seemed most helpful. This year, that meant staying for the last two hours of church and putting Sunday dinner on the table. He's an incredible husband and a wonderful friend.

All I have to say about the Unitarians is that they win on the music. Between David Wilcox and Tracy Spring, they must be singing the flavor of philosophies of men mixed with scripture I love best. I don't think I would give up Mo Tab and Mack Wilberg for that, especially not on a Sunday morning, but... I'm going to have a hard time agreeing with the Stake President that our youth were the best ones on the program. I get his point, though.

In the rehearsal room before the concert, Zach locked his knees, felt queasy, hyperventilated, and fainted. He clonked his head pretty hard on a folding chair and got up disoriented and with tears in his eyes. And was his mother there to hold his hand? Of course I wasn't. When he went down, Rob said, "Keep singing." So I kept right on playing and let Zach sort himself out. He claims he's RELIEVED that I didn't run to his side, but am I real mother? I'm the one that rushes my bashed up children to the tub before examining their wounds. I don't want them to bleed on the carpet.

So now I'm left with a slightly queasy child who has a large bump on his head, a car full of granola bar wrappers and empty foil drink packages, the usual stack of music mixed with programs and maps of Assumption, and my memories. This really, finally, does feel like the end. Good thing, too. I'm tempted to ask Tracy Spring if she might be willing to sing with US next year.

You Are Not Going to Belive This, but...

I was talking to Tim last night at bedtime. It was a very emotional conversation about what goes on at recess. Tim's best friend moved last year, basically dissolving the club they had together. It has now come to light that this club was called "The Bomb Club." You can guess how thrilled Tom and I were to hear it. The whole thing was pretty innocent--they pretended to blow up inanimate object like rocks and trees--but they might as well have called it the "Please Suspend Me Club." This would have been a sleeping dog except that Tim revived the club this year with a group of extremely impulsive and intense little second grade boys. The result has been trouble. Tom and I have been trying to get him to dissolve or at least rename the club (The Demolition Club?) but he has stubbornly refused. Tearfully, he told me that it was his last link to his best friend and no matter what he would keep the memory alive.

Anyway, last night I was taking another crack at it, which lead to a tortuous discussion of all the ins and outs of second grade male playground culture. I was asking him about different kids, including one I've never met named Justin.

Mom: How about Justin? Are you friends?

Tim: Nah. I never was much friends with Justin. He's all about the army. Me, I'd like a quiet life in a room full of gizmos and gadgets, inventing, while he's using my greatest inventions in the field of battle.

You think I'm embellishing this, but I swear I'm not. I had to break off the conversation to run out of the room and write down what he said word for word.

PS--Are the words in this post going to get my blog monitored? Will I end up on the no-fly list like Colin? I think I'm going to post anyway, which should convince you all of how much I love you.