The First Day of School:

There is something about this picture that says so much about the children, what they anticipate and how they feel. I told my daughter that it is photojournalist-esque. I didn't know what other way I could describe the moment that she has captured.

One of the writing challenges Carolyn of Skateboard (link on right) provided yesterday was:

1. Spend some time remembering how your family "tells time"--such as
'before the move', or 'after the accident' or 'when the baby was born.' Make
a list.

Yesterday I was completely stumped by this one. The only thing I could think of was that we so often date our lives according to losses, when somebody died. It seems that it is usually, "Before Grandma died . . . " or "When we still had Lindy . . .". Every now and then we might date things to where we lived when they occurred: "When we lived on South Avenue . . ." or "Before we moved here . . .". Because I am in exile, living in my old house where I never thought I would live again, this is a sore spot for me. I'm afraid it will become a part of our measurement of time and the thought makes me unhappy. I think the fear is that it may be a long measurement of time for my life, that it may be more permanent than I want it to be.

I hate to say it, but right now both subjects seemed depressing. But still, school has begun, I do have some time for writing, I do want to get back with the group and participate if possible and I think it would be very good for me. So it was important to me to try to do these challenges.

And that's it! That's the answer! School has begun. I always dated things that happened when I was child by what grade I was in. And when I relate stories about my older children, I remember when it happened the same way, by the grade they had been in when it happened.

In the picture above, I see my grandchildren beginning another eventful year of their lives. Hannah (not her real name) is obviously excited. She likes school, she is eager to get back to her friends and she is still at that age where enthusiasm for it can make her giggle. I can see her wriggling in this picture. She almost can't sit still for the photograph. While her brother isn't quite so excited. He is at that age where he has concerns and maybe some anxiety about what the day may bring. Maybe he is wondering if the class bully that bothered him last year will be in his class again. I don't know. At that age, I had begun to worry about everything. I would worry about the clothes I was wearing, who my homeroom teacher would be, if my lunch would look sufficiently similar to my friends. So, although I am sure he is excited, he isn't eager, either. And, so begins another year of their lives--a memorable one, an eventful one--one that they will remember and, like me, assign and date to it a cache of memories.

Day 1 continued: The Bounder

So, at approximately 9:30, I dragged my duffle to the Southwind caravan. We located the Bounder, the camper that I was told serves as the official home of cook staff, even though it became apparent that I was the only cook staff on it. I'd found my way by talking to strangers here and there, then faceless, busy but kind.

I stowed my suitcase against the back wall of the back room where six bunks had been installed. I noted that for the most part the bunks were empty and unmade, that no other gear cluttered any corner. I had to worry about everything. I'm a very insecure person and I clue in to what I am to do by what others do and this wasn't working that way. It was obvious that although there were six bunks, there were no other bags--nobody's luggage. Evidence suggested that I might be alone. Not only then, but even at other times later in the trip, I wondered if anybody else would be getting on the Bounder and even if the Bounder would be going on.

Then, because the Bounder was excessively hot, I went back out into the fresh air. Around the buses that were parked behind it the activity was frenetic. The quiet alongside the Bounder was disconcerting in comparison. I was feeling like a fish out of my fishbowl and as though the water had gone somewhere else. And wouldn't a fish bowl full of water have been nice at that moment? I wanted a bath so bad!

I meandered through the hyperactivity outside the buses and located Ike. I was the only person meandering. I seemed to be the only person without an agenda, without a task and with empty hands and slow feet. In the brief exchange we had before he ran off to do something, I wondered when we could shower. It was just a question! Disgusted, Ike looked down his nose and, in a nasal tone to add weight to his disgust, "Don't be high maintenance, Mom!"

I backpeddled. "I won't be high maintenance," my voice whined even in my own ears, "I'm just wondering . . ." I was left wondering for quite some time because he never gave me an answer.

We parted company and I returned to the dark, empty side of the Bounder to wait for its occupants. All the other vehicles were loaded, the members installed in their seats--but the Bounder remained dark and empty. Not a soul walked along its side, not a person sat on its couches, not a driver made an appearance. The engines of the buses and trucks hummed and the Bounder sat silent.

I sneaked the opportunity to brush my teeth, using my drinking water to rinse my mouth. Embarrassed, even in the darkness, I squatted low to spit into the underbrush at the edge of the parking lot. A few minutes later, I saw a woman next to the camper ahead of the Bounder brushing her own teeth and I realized for the first time that I had discovered a secret of grabbing the few minutes here or there for care of self.

Suddenly, people converged on the Bounder. I hadn't even see them come! And then it was crowded, every seat filled. I entered and plopped, or fell, into the nearest seat--which turned out to be in the middle of things to my embarrassment. I recognized Mike, the director, and Vento, officially in charge of brass and--maybe officially in charge of a great deal more that I am unaware of, but the rest were all strangers. I think there were eight people and there was only one woman besides myself.

It was just that quick and the lights were on and we were beginning to try to get off but blocked by a camper belonging to Pioneer (another corps). I don't know how they do it, but nothing blocks them for long! There I was, sitting between Mike and Vento and worrying that I had gotten into the wrong vehicle. Surely some mom-volunteer shouldn't be sitting between the big brass! I even suggested that, "Am I in the right place?" Mike assured me that I was, but I remained doubtful. And then the Pioneer camper rolled out of our way as if by psychic transmission of some sort and we were on our way.

Taking in my surroundings should have made me feel right at home! I'm a child of the 60's. I even thought of myself as a hippie at one point. The inside of the Bounder looked lived in. It seemed a bit shabby, cluttered and the couches were covered with bed pillows and sleeping bags. I realized to my horror that I was sitting on somebody's pillow. I tried to minimize the effort it took to wrangle it from beneath me and push it up out of the way. Even the crowdedness, the shortage of seating as Mike sat on an ice chest, added to the effect. The atmosphere, to say the least, was casual. I knew automatically that the Bounder gets little attention--there is so much more to do.

Every moment is an adventure with the corps. And, it seems, as I watched Mike, that every moment is a potential disaster and takes major effort. Not that Mike seems the least bit stressed--but it would for me and it would make me freak, scream, cuss, pull out my hair, and exhibit and suffer every stress related illness from ulcers to heart-attacks. And so I admire Mike and the staff tremendously and I observe them with the kind of wonder that comes from being mystified rather than with any hope that I could emulate them.

It was a narrow little parking lot for those buses. Beyond the Pioneer caravan, the drive narrowed to car lane width and then plunged down a steep driveway. It was too short for the Bounder. We scraped going through. But the buses! Even I could understand that the buses are long and low. So that was our first hurdle--getting out of the parking lot . . . and a bumper crunched behind us.

*I know that I am windy! And I hope I manage to get it written now that I have started this way.*

Reviewing my long week with Southwind Drum and Bugle Corps

Day 1, 7/18
This is the trip in review before I have forgotten. My journal, kept by hand, was spotty and incomplete.

Because I had no clue what I was in for, I'm going to begin here with that same mystery for my readers! What is a drum and bugle corps? Until last November, I didn't even know that they exist. I think it is a shame now that I didn't and that I've missed so many years, so much excitement and so many fine performances. Drum and Bugle Corps ought to be included as an Olympic event!

What I must say about the trip, in total, was that I have rarely come across such a fine group of hard working, self-sacrificing, goal oriented people. I would have to apply a great many superlatives in order to feel that I might have expressed all their qualities. Most especially, and I think this is rare in today’s world, I felt that each and every person involved, staff and kids, have found a sense of purpose for their lives in this strange competitive world that runs parallel to this ordinary world that most of us inhabit. It is so strange to say this, as later on in the trip I actually worried that the importance of items in the drum corps agenda take on a larger than life feel, an importance out of the natural order of things--an insanity caused by being so focused on the head of a pin! But keeping the real world in mind, the drum corps world is a wondrous place. So, I was taken aback, being somewhat of a religious nut, if you will, I had thought that the only place I would find this kind of devotion to an ideal would be in faith.

These kids have a dream! I say they are kids, but they range in age from 16 through 21 (maybe 15 through 22). And they are all exceptional, self-motivated and driven in a way that so few kids are--maybe two kids in a thousand. They are willing to suffer amazing deprivations, long hours on their feet in miserable weather conditions in the hope of winning (I have a story to tell about that later). At the same time, they are loyal to each other and to the corps, loyalty being a rare commodity in this world.

Of course these are generalities and sometimes what I have said above may seem like an overstatement–but when I stood a quarter of a mile from the football field late in the trip watching them practice beneath the broiling sun, which they did all day as the heat waves rose off the field, and I was profoundly touched. That shimmering image of more than a hundred young men and women, instruments glinting in the sun, at temperatures soaring over a hundred degrees came to symbolize all my admiration and to describe if only partly how great they all are. And, this goes too for all the adults who are committed to their success–who have made their own great sacrifice for this ideal they all share and for the love of music, for accomplishment of dreams, for belonging to something greater than the sum of its parts.

That all said, I’m just a mom–and could only observe and try to help what little I could. I felt very much like an outsider, an observer–like a fish in a fishbowl looking out at the greater world warped by my own confines. It seemed that every person I was with were long-term bugle corps devotees and most were alumni to either Southwind or another corps or to both. I was learning a new language, a new way of thinking, a new level of determination and a focus that was entirely on the corps, the kids and their dreams.

What probably didn’t work so well for me was that one thing that does define almost all of these good-hearted people is that they are competitive. I’m not sure that a non-competitive person fits in their filing cabinet. I went solely with the hope that I could be of help and that my health wouldn’t defeat me. The doctor had told me almost a month before that the trip would either kill me or make me stronger. Considering that Day 2 was twenty-one hours long and I felt that a good hard eight hour day would be my upper-limit, I was probably knocked out of the running for my zombie-like stare the first day.

I joined up with them in Fayetteville, Arkansas (that is Arkansaw for you Easterners). My husband drove me, my huge duffle and overstuffed shoulder-bag to the show–the very first Drum and Bugle Corps show that I had ever had the opportunity to see. I was entering a strange new world without having a clue about what was to come.

The day was hot! Sticky hot. The kind of hot day in Oklahoma when not even an air conditioner can make you feel cool. Naturally, we arrived early and parked in the stadium parking. Before the show was ready to begin we left the car and began walking in the vague direction of the parkinglot where the buses had been sighted. We finally located the set of buses and trucks that comprise Southwind's home on the road more than a quarter of a mile walk from where we'd started (it turned out to be the long way ‘round).

I did understand early on that they travel and sleep by night and spend almost every day in a new location. We found the caravan surrounded by a smattering of people as the kids were already mostly dressed and were warming up some way off. The first thing I checked was the cook trailer, by chance, but found it empty. We finally located somebody and I was told to find "James." I had no idea who James was or what he looked like, but the person who sent me in search of him seemed to think I should. And I thought Mike was the director! (He is, but James is the cook! So for cook staff, it would be obvious, wouldn't it?) So off I went hoping that somebody more motivated to get on their feet would help me in my search. Note that now I understand their reticence about putting their weight on their feet. And I also know now that James would not be easily found in his rare moment of freedom.

It took three tries to find somebody who had a clue where he might be before I finely located him. I found him back at the cook trailer standing on the ramp at the back. I'd come full circle. I introduced myself and felt immediately that I was a subscript in the script–a place I am unaccustomed to. Not that I'm complaining, but just describing the feeling. I was told that the corps would be leaving at 10:00 PM and I could bring my things after the show. I never expected the laid-back attitude. Regiments marched through my mind as I felt lost in the vagueness of the instructions!

After that non-plussed moment of introduction, my husband and I stopped for a while before returning to the stadium in order to watch the kids warm-up in a paved spot between two buildings. Initially the brass section was in a semi-circle and playing some part of the show–beautifully. The percussion section warms up separately and were out on a hill to the south, out of sight but, as I later realized, they are never out of hearing. The tattoo of drums is always in the background--even when the kids are supposedly at rest. The kids were wearing their white show shirts (an undergarment) and their jumper-like black trousers. A few other parents had gathered along a wall out-of-the-way to watch and we joined them. We sneaked to a spot and sat down as though we hoped the directors wouldn’t notice that we were sneaking a preview that we ought to pay for.

Ike managed to ignore us, as he should. He calls it "lock down." He keeps his eyes straight ahead and lets nothing distract him. I knew that! But I was thrilled. I secretly hoped that he saw us anyway.

It was the first sight I’d had of him since we’d left him in Kentucky at the end of May. I had heard from his older brother that he had grown, that his acne had cleared, that he was more mature. What I saw was the most beautiful kid in the whole world! Bronzed and blond by hours in the sun, strong from excessive exercise, a slight golden fuzz on his cheeks and glowing green eyes–I just felt so much pride in him. His jawline was more pronounced, his cheeks taught, childhood padding broiled away. And, yes, he had matured as it turned out, both visibly and emotionally a very different person in many ways.

(to be continued!)

Late edition:

You scored as Ginny Weasley, You definitely share your mother's (Molly Weasley) fiery resolve and slowly but surely people are learning to respect you because of it. Ginny Weasley 85% Hermione Granger 80% Severus Snape 70% Remus Lupin 70% Albus Dumbledore 60% Ron Weasley 60% Sirius Black 55% Draco Malfoy 40% Harry Potter 35% Lord Voldemort 30% Your Harry Potter Alter Ego Is...? created with QuizFarm.com

Busy summer!

All I can say is that the drum corps experience ruled my summer for one reason or another. It seems it shouldn't since I am merely a "mom". But I joined them as a volunteer for a week and then I spent a few days chasing them from show to show. When I finally dragged home, thoroughly exhausted, I had a long list of things to do to prepare for my son's return, the beginning of the school year, etc.

Here is a video of the horn-line practicing in a parkinglot during finals week:



I have begun to record a journal of my own experience on the road, albeit a short one, and I intend to post it shortly.