I made my choir debut yesterday in our little church. The problem with a small church is that it has a small choir, which means there are few people to drown me out. Somehow, I think I managed to get the anthem right. I'm musically challenged. I understand the basics of reading music--the highs and the lows. It's all those other little dots and lines that throw me. Since I've been a regular church attendee for the last eight years, I've simply followed along with the people around me. I was shocked to learn that, in a choir, you don't always sing the same parts. The altos can go high while the tenors go low and sometimes the words aren't even the same! I actually have to read and follow along on the song sheet. Following the tenor standing next to me doesn't help because he's farsighted and gets the words wrong sometimes himself.
Everyone said we sounded fine, which proves that there are angelic filters between a choir and a congregation.
Sydney, my darling daughter who complaineth that I don't write about her enough on my blog, has been gimping around the house for the last week, the result of being introduced to the reality of middle school sports. Basketball, to be precise. They actually keep score, you know. Today she finds out if she made the team. Hopefully, the suffering will not have been in vain.
I'm not one of "those" parents when it comes to sports. Those of you who are one of "those" parents, and you know who you are, probably wouldn't understand my casual interest in Sydney's athletic career. I want her to succeed and have fun, but I harbor no fantasies of her being the first female player on the Pistons. A scholarship would be nice, mostly for me, but I figure they have enough pressure just growing out of their clothes.
My son, Andrew, couldn't care less about sports. I even offered to watch the Lions with him yesterday. Yes, I know, it's not like a real football game. He lasted through ten time-outs in thirty seconds and decided to read a book instead. That's my boy. Sports are different with boys. Don't believe me? Join a bowling league of all men (or watch if you don't qualify), then join a mixed league. You'd swear the men were playing for the million dollar roll-off. Somehow, this Tuesday night tradition is their last ditch effort to pull themselves from middle-class suburbia and make it to the bowler's hall of fame. I think it's right next to the Anheiser Busch headquarters in St. Louis.
I typed "Chapter 20" at the top of a new page this morning. I didn't type anything after that, but it was nice to do. At this point, I'm past the middle of the book without suffocating from boredom. Always a good sign I think. The last part of the book unfolds quickly, as is customary with a mystery, and I've got it pegged in my mind how it's going to go. I've always had an idea, but I like to toss in a surprise or two for myself at the end.
I'm thinking of changing the Wednesday blog. I don't think anyone likes it much. It's supposed to be a fictional editorial from my fictional town of Trout, Michigan. Perhaps I'll dig into my collection of "Tales of the Old Doe Hunters," which I've never been able to publish. Outdoor magazines shy from humor now, which is a shame, I think. Let's face it, there really aren't that many ways to fillet a Walleye. Gene Hill, where are you?