The Family Band

I grew up in one of those families that valued music and knowledge of music, but had very little auditory and rhythmic skills. We were the kind of family that put all the kids in piano lessons, only to watch each child successively find his/her way out. I’m not sure how my brothers did it. But my technique consisted of taking candy from the piano teacher despite not completing my 3 consecutive weeks of practice, of cursing the busts of famous pianists that I had on my piano when I got the lowest award possible at my first piano competition, and finally just storming out of my piano teacher’s house when I could not for the life of me get my two hands to do different things while playing the politically correct piece, “Little Indian Boys.” Still my parents did not relent. Perhaps they read a parenting book prior to our births that informed them to keep us in musical lessons for all of childhood regardless of the skill we presented.

Ben took up the clarinet. He actually was pretty good at it. The several Christmases of him playing, “Chestnuts roasting by an open fire…” while our dog whined along were priceless. He even got good enough to be first chair in the Wind Ensemble, only to have his clarinet lessons in college be his only B he received in all four years. We haven’t seen the clarinet since. Adam on the other hand took on trumpet… then harmonica… then a brief interlude with pots, pans and bottles…then a stint in a musical… then a rap group… I moved onto flute from piano as any little girl should. But, I never really loved it. I never excelled, and I always hated my flute teachers. I also had some time in my childhood where I thought I could sing. I even starred in my 5th grade musical (a Rock and Roll version of Little Red Riding Hood). Still, none of our talents were sustainable. It seems the Gingold Gerhardstein soil was not rich enough for the musical seeds my parents tried to sew.

We degenerated into a family of camp songs. The kind of family that never sang in tune, and when we couldn’t remember the words we’d simply rewrite them to suit us. In our bubble we’d pump up each other’s egos. I’d say, “Adam I really like how you held out the low note of SEEEEAAAA in the Titanic song” or Ben would compliment mom for reaching a note no other human has ever even approached. But on our own, we floundered.

I think this failed attempt by my parents to make us into musicians resulted in me looking for music in my potential mates. Thus, I have dated lots of musicians. My first love had a family band that played surf music at bookstores throughout the city. All I ever wanted was to be in the band… but the best I could seem to do was date the band. That is until this Christmas.

This Christmas we lazed around, skied, played games and ate the standard Swedish meal, but then the unexpected happened. My aunt Carla brought out poppers wrapped in musical-note paper. She announced that in these small poppers, an orchestra was contained. We all skeptically grabbed a popper and rolled our eyes as we pulled them apart. Much to our surprise, each of us was left holding a blow-chime (I’m not sure if there is a real name for the instruments we had) of various sizes. Not only did we have our own individualized instruments, but we also had musical note crowns. Adam was quick to grab the conductor’s baton and the eight of us got in order around the couches.

I was #2 also known as Re. My Uncle George exclaimed his excitement of being number 6 when he said, “I’ve never been first chair number 6 in my life!”

We each filled with pride as we perfected the one sound each of our instruments could make. My mom had trouble holding her instrument, often covering the hole with her finger. Adam informed her that she really didn’t need to use two hands to hold her 1-inch instrument.

After sufficient warm-up, we were ready to go. Adam held the sheet of paper with the musical scores, held up the baton and pointed at George, #6. “666 666 68456 7777766 66655658,” also known as Jingle Bells. When pointed to, we blew. We stopped blowing when the next person was pointed to. The synergy was amazing. Next came O Come All Ye Faithful. This one started on my cousin Andy, by far the least excited about being in the band, but still he blew. We all blew. We did several songs, each one getting better, each note getting stronger. Talk of going on the road was abuzz.

On the 26th we decided to reconvene the band in order to perfect our performance. More family was coming up on the 27th, and we wanted to give them a show. This practice was not going as well. The pep seemed to have been lost in our notes. Perhaps our first problem was we had branched out to the non-Christmas genre: London Bridge is Falling Down, Can-Can… we squeaked them out, but not without some serious roadblocks. Namely, number 3, my mom. Her blowing had become erratic, airy, and uncontrolled. There were murmurs of replacing her. But we were soon distracted by an obstinate number 4, cousin Andy. Every time Adam pointed at number 5, 6, 7, a peep was heard out of number 4. It was clear that our egos were taking over. It was no longer about the band. Carrie, number 1, reminded us that, “there is no I in BAND.”

As our spirits began to fall, it was up to the conductor to bring us back together. Adam held his baton high and said, “This one goes out to baby Jesus,” and he pointed at Carrie. “112143 112154…” The beauteous song we all know and love emerged from our flutes, “Happy Birthday to you, happy birthday to you, happy birthday to Jesus, happy birthday to you.”

Just one of those days...

12/22/08

6:30am. It was one of those mornings that seemed to come way too soon. I got up when my alarm went off, but was quickly drawn back to the warmth of my bed. 15 more minutes. No luck. My body seemed pretty determined to stay put. Sometimes my body insists it is sick just to allow my mind to stop fighting the responsibility of the day. Despite the thermometer’s lack of support in my conclusion of illness, I made a deal with myself. Stay in bed, sleep it off, and go into work for a half-day.

11am. I’m showered, have a lunch made, have snowman baggies full of spiced pecans I made for my coworkers. I’m ready. I go out to my snow and ice covered car to do the big dig. Normally I would take the bus, but I had a few Christmas errands to run and needed to get the car unburied for my journey to Minnesota. So, I dig, scrape, kick and chisel. The car appears to be free. I sit down and ignite the car. It starts. Good sign. Then I attempt to move. After three separate attempts, I begin to realize this is a fruitless venture. I then try to turn my car off and get the keys out only to realize I can’t get the car started again, and I can’t remove the keys from the ignition. So, I’m stuck in ice, my car won’t start, and I’m supposed to be at work. I go inside to call AAA. After explaining the situation, they inform me that they can be there by 3:15, hopefully sooner. So, I resign myself to one of those days of sitting around waiting. I get some loose ends done, but mostly I sulk.

4pm. No AAA. I call again. Wait on hold for about 30 minutes and they inform me that it will be 30-45 more minutes. In the mean time I realize that my parents are planning to drive through Chicago on their way to Minnesota that night. I begin to wonder why I am planning to venture on my own the next day… I check the weather and see that a wintry mix is coming in the next day. I start to wonder if I can really even make it to Minnesota the next day.

6pm. No AAA. I call again. Wait on hold for 30 minutes, and they inform me that it will be another 30-45 minutes. In the mean time I decide that I should probably leave that night with my parents to go to Minnesota. Though, my mom insists on needing her own car, so we decide to caravan. (My parents realize when they are en route to Chicago that they forgot all of Christmas in Cincinnati—it should arrive tomorrow via Greyhound). I then pull into damage control mode. Having taken the day unexpectedly off work, I was feeling like I needed to go in before leaving town…

7:30pm. 8 hours after the initial call, AAA arrives!! And here I am going to admit the really stupid thing that I have in fact admitted to no one until this moment of ultimate confession. It turns out that my car was not stalled. I had simply left it in reverse when I turned it off, and thus it wouldn’t turn on or let me take the keys out. I know. Let it sink in. Stupid. But, still, I was legitimately stuck in the ice. The lovely tow-truck man shoveled me out 3 times and directed exactly how I move the wheels until freedom was had.

8:00pm. Kinko’s. One of my tasks for the day was to pick up some last minute presents I had decided to make. Thank god for 24 hour stores… If only the post office were so convenient. I made two different calendars (very good gift idea for pretty cheap!). I get to Kinko’s and they accidentally made an extra of 1 of the calendars, and not made the other. They tell me it will only be 10 minutes. So, then I go to my car to wait only to realize the calendars they did complete were all for 2008. My heart sank; I certainly needed these calendars before leaving town. So, I rush back inside in panic mode. They promise to get them done within the hour.

9:00pm. A good old fashioned use-up-everything in the fridge omelet sufficed for dinner. Everything was packed and ready to go. I make my first trip out to the car with skis and suitcase. Oh shit. No I didn’t. Yes I did. I left my keys to my apartment inside. Locked inside. No roommates home, I start buzzing all my neighbors apartments. Buzzzzz. Buzzzz. Buzzzz. Nothing. This is when I had that, “this is it, it’s time to stop” moment. Finally I find someone to let me in, and luckily I had left my apartment door cracked. Coffee in hand I make the final sweep and head out.

9:15pm. Calendars are good and I drive to work. At work I am able to distribute my spiced pecans to co-workers’ mailboxes (very important), and I look up another 75 mammogram patients that have constantly been a constant pressure (no pun intended) on me over the past week. While I don’t complete the entirety of the task I am able to assess where I am and what I need to do upon return.

11:15pm. Parents show up, and the caravan to Minnesota begins.

1:30am. Asleep to the sweet sound of my mother's snoring in the Baymont Inn in Janesville, WI.

As I said, it was just one of those days.

(Disclaimer: I realize this story of my bad day may not be so entertaining, but it was one of those days I felt like I needed to write out. Now that I have written it out, I realize it wasn’t nearly as crazy as I had made it out to be in my mind, and I therefore will no longer hold onto it with such stress. So thank you for being my audience.)