Our middle school is 6th , 7th , and 8th. Beginning 7th grade, the child said, I want to be in Band. And I said, I don’t think you can, think you need to join in 6th grade… if you want to join you need to hunt down the director and see what you need to do to make it happen. And then I smugly went back to doing what I was doing, knowing THAT was not going to happen. Two days later he is back, he has spoken to her, has a name of a person he can get lesson with over the summer and for $50 I can rent a baritone for the summer for him to use and practice. He tests the first week of school and if he passes, he is in. I was impressed both with her setting the solid expectations and him actually following through. And slightly stunned, if truth be told.
We now enter into our 3rd season of High School Band. It is a world I had no idea even existed. And except for one small reason, I am so very glad he found and joined this tribe. It helped him make the switch from middle school to high school. By the time first day of classes rolled around his freshman year, he had already spent 135+ hours with 300 kids he would see in the rabbit mazes of the halls. He could head nod to juniors and seniors, he fit. Band, I learned, is like a family… you cannot pick on my brother; I however can pick on my brother. Makes it handy as a freshman finding their way. He has grown as a person and a musician. He has experienced euphoria and disappointment and has come out the better for both.
However, we have this small problem every year at this time. The infestation. My great nemesis … turf. Season runs from about mid-July to mid-November. In this time period, I sweep, mop, vacuum and pick up by hand more turf in my home that you can ever imagine. I step on it in the kitchen on the tile floor. I find it on the couch or in the carpet. Once I even found it in what I thought were my clean sheets! I have threatened to save it during the season and give it back to the band directors at the last pot luck dinner. The above picture is what I discovered when I went into his bathroom. WHY IS THERE TURF IN THE SINK, I yelled. At least it isn’t on the floor, was the reply. Sigh.