The Show Marches On

The bright, cheerful morning holds its breath, eager with anticipation.  A strong aroma, of just ground Arabica beans, permeates the house; their scent inviting me to wake up.  I hear the brisk sound of doors closing and movement upstairs, all in a rush for the day to begin.  Soon enough, as I pour my first cup of coffee, my high school aged son comes down the stairs, his steps full of purpose.  But it’s only 7am, in the summer time.  And yet, he is ready.  He is quick to start this day, and accepting of the task before him for the rest of his summer.  We step into our car silently in the early morning, a ritual forgotten in the passing weeks of summer, to make our way to the destination.

Some ten minutes later, we slowly follow a row of cars winding into the parking lots at his high school.  Its’ brick façade welcomes the attention after the hiatus of summer.  The time has come; summer vacation is over and a new year of band, and the first day of marching band camp begins.  Dozens of students arrive, carrying food and snacks, for an entire day, with gallons of water and tubes of sunblock to defend them against the harsh sun.

I know what the days ahead will bring.  My son and his classmates will leave at dawn and come home at twilight every day; their clothes drenched in sweat, their bodies and minds exhausted, and their faces sunburned from the rigorous 12 hour days in the Texas heat.  In the aftermath of the first few days, their limbs will be sore from the marching and carrying of 20-30 pounds of instruments and their minds numb from the memorization of the musical notes.  They will forgo the rest of their summer break to revel in this delight.  They will give up sleeping late, video games, shopping, summer jobs, and lazy days by the pool with their friends in exchange for the rigor and intensity of this program.

Most will do this every year, for all four years of their high school because with every movement learned, every footstep taken, and every musical note perfected in the camaraderie of youth, these kids partake in an amazing journey of endurance and achievement.  And like the freshman parent I was last year, I know too, that this year, the extent of their stamina, courage, and capability will inspire and impress me all over again.

But this year is even more unique, it offers even more opportunities for this incoming class. The school’s beloved Band Directors are gone and a new regime is yet to be appointed. The uncertainty of change had begun to creep in but leaves empty handed as it is no match for these fresh, strong, determined faces.  For even from behind my windshield, I see, that these kids, they are NOT uncertain…they are marching forward with an innate discipline in the glorious early hours of the morning.  For them, waking up & arriving today is as natural and invigorating as every year before it, despite the flux in leadership.

As this swirl of thoughts goes through my mind while I drop my son off, I think to myself, should I have said something to bolster him up before he stepped out of the car? Something to drive away the fading scent of anxiety, the unknown?

And then I recall the conversation we had a few days ago about the onset of the changes.

“New beginning, Mom,” was all he said and I knew then that it was really he who was encouraging me.  For him, the show had already marched on….

If you would like to donate to this program of hard working and well deserving students, your gifts would be most appreciated. Go to this link, http://www.austinbulldogband.org/donationsrock .

Thanks!