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Bacteria
by Kimberly Ripley
All five of my children are musical. At various times throughout the day the sounds
of electric guitars, drums, piano, flute, and crooning voices float through our
home. Thrilled that each one chose to pursue an instrument, my husband and I provided
lessons, sheet music, transportation to and from lessons, and replacement flutes
every time Judy lost hers. We proudly attended recitals. One time I was even asked to
write a review of a concert in which my eldest son was performing.
Giddy with excitement over reviewing my own child, I arrived early at the hall where
the performance was scheduled. Introducing myself to the school music director who had
arranged the concert, I assured him I would plug the school in my article.
"You must be so proud," I said. "Your students have worked hard all year."
"They've done this on their own," he told me. "They held rehearsals every
day after school. It should be quite a surprise."
It was indeed.
The first act was a young lady performing a beautiful aria. Her voice filled
the hall with a resonance beyond her years. I snapped a picture of her elated
parents with tears in their eyes.
A trio performed next. Although not particularly gifted musically, they were all
good sports and really gave the song their best. They filled the hall with a warm
feeling of camaraderie.
A rendition of a Tracy Chapman tune left the crowd believing the recording star had
somehow slipped into the hall when no one was looking. The voice and style
similarities were uncanny. I made a note to highlight this young woman in my article.
At Intermission a light supper was served. The proceeds of the entire event would
fund another event the music department hoped to attend. After dishes were cleared
and coffee was poured, the audience was instructed to relax and enjoy their dessert
along with the rest of the show.
Through sinful bites of a brownie sundae I jotted notes and fiddled with my tape
recorder. I knew that later I could replay the performances and add substance to my
story. I wanted to sit back and give my undivided attention when my son and his friends
presented their band's debut.
I hadn't heard this particular band. Many of the groups he'd played in had practiced
in our garage or shed, but this bunch had spent most of their rehearsal time at another
boy's house or in school. I hadn't even met a couple of them.
With one act to go, and no sundae left, my eyes and ears were fully tuned for a musical
treat. Pushing "record" on the recorder I set it on the table and waited.
A wiry little man introduced the next act.
"And now, live from Portsmouth High, I'm happy to present Dirt!"
"Dirt?"
As the curtain opened I saw my handsome son remove the mic from its stand. His buddy
Tom looked self-assured. The other two boys wore interesting clothing. One had a jacket
full of nails. The other had multi-colored hair. That was okay.
Wasn't it?
"Hi, everyone," my son greeted the crowd.
"Hey," the rest of the band waved.
"I'd like to dedicate this song to my parents. If it wasn't for their help I'd never
be where I am today."
I was near tears.
The bass guitar and drums set the beat. Electric guitars chimed in with some sort of ...
noise? I'm not sure what it was, but it didn't sound good. My son turned around, then
lurched toward the audience and began screaming in a tortured voice.
"When you come to my area, look out for bacteria!"
This child was a former choirboy. He had the voice of an angel. Why was he screaming?
"Bacteria! Bacteria! When you come to my area!"
At that moment I wanted to fall off my chair and slither away like a snake. What I
had expected to be a mother's proud moment was a nightmare. And I still had to go home
and write the review!
When the show ended the music director congratulated parents on their children's
wonderful performances. I got a cold hard stare.
My son wrapped his arms around me in a big bear hug, obviously pleased with their display.
"So, what did you think?" he asked.
"It was great," I lied.
With the publication of that review I learned one major advantage of using a pen name.
Recommended Reading:
A comic survival guide to being a parent of teenage daughters, Bruce Cameron's book started life in 1995 as a wildly, and accidentally,
successful Internet column. In short, sharply observed vignettes, he touches a middle-aged-male nerve by describing the rage and
bewilderment of having little girls turn into teenage monsters, but every complaint is punctured by a self-deprecating
regular-guy-in-a-mad-world irony. There are helpful hints (or rather, unhelpful ones, because Cameron admits that nothing will make any
difference) for coping with the telephone, clothes, parties, car you used to own, and boyfriend you don't want her to hang around with.
About the Author:
Kimberly Ripley is a freelance writer and
stay-at-home wife and mother of five. Her articles and short stories appear in magazines
and newspapers across the country, as well as on the web. Visit Kimberly at
her homepage.
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