The Sound of Music

Last night was the fifth grade band concert -- the night when music students from four different elementary schools come together at the high school to perform with the instruments they’ve been “playing” for the last year.

In the audience were the families of these young musicians; the moms and dads who for months have endured the sounds of squealing instruments, only to smile and say “sounds great, honey!” We’ve done it so many times before, and last night, we came prepared to do it again. You know the routine: come to the event, watch them perform, and then tell them how great they were.

Mothers, of course, are the best at this. Dad, on the other hand, will sometimes make the mistake of offering suggestions on ways to improve. Dads always want to help them get better now, because after all, life is a competition. Maybe we’ve seen too many sports movies, but our basic approach is to stress practice and the fundamentals. We demand this until they’ve achieved excellence or a game comes on TV, whatever comes first.

While we like to talk about improving their performance, the truth is – at least in my house – it’s Mom who does the lion’s share of the discipline: That includes homework and music practice and anything that requires an actual attention span. All I’ve really done in the musical vein is to use the trumpet as an alarm clock, which hasn’t made me very popular, especially on weekends. Mom sets the routine, helps when things get difficult and is always the first to say, “Sounds great, honey.”

But most importantly, Moms seem to understand better than anyone that with every little achievement, something precious is lost, something innocent; something sweet or child-like and once it’s gone, it will never come back. And that’s what makes those little steps forward that our children take so bittersweet.

The evening began with the National Anthem and one thing is for sure: you really haven’t heard the Star-Spangled Banner until you’ve heard it played on a trombone by a fifth grader. But once the concert started, we heard something remarkable: the sound of music.

And if the squeals and the screeches of the instruments were still there, we couldn’t hear them. All we could hear were the sounds of our fifth graders, playing their instruments; wearing their white shirts and dark slacks, and most of all, looking far too grown up, even to Dad.

Fred Nahhat is DPTV Director, On-Air Fundraising