A Little Bit of Culture

Today is my sister Lori's birthday, and it also happens to be the birthday of our favorite resident four-legged kiddo. {Different years.}

Lori told me last night that she missed the books I wrote during college...books which flew away in the tornado...8 years ago today. She told me a specific story from those books that she really loved, so I thought today, in honor of her birthday, I'd put it here on the old blogaroo, for her and all of you!

{Backing up to explain: one year, while I was in college, I didn't really have any money to buy presents for the family, so I took what I did have, which was time, and wrote a collection of stories and essays. I made copies for everyone and that was their Christmas gift. This is a story from that book, which takes us back to the late 90's, when I was still in college, and also still in that awkward state of redefining the parent/child roles. And you might notice it wasn't all that gracefully. Still...hope you enjoy.}

I've always considered my relationship with my parents educational - both for them and for me. Don't get me wrong: I love my parents very much, but our wide generation gap sometimes provides much entertainment. This was the case last December when I invited them to a cultural experience.

The University Chorale was going to perform Handel's Messiah about a week before Christmas break. Two of my roommates were singing in it, and I planned to watch them. I thought it would be a nice gesture to invite my parents to this cultural event, so I got three tickets.

Well, the week before the concert, I came down with one of the nastiest colds I'd had in a long time. I informed Mom and Dad that if I was still in the severe coughing stage on the night of the performance, I wasn't going. I told them it would be rude of me to go and ruin the night for other people while I hacked away in their ears. But by the night of the concert, I was doing fairly well, so I went.

We arrived a few minutes early in order to get a good seat. The doors weren't open yet, so we waited around outside. After a few minutes of waiting, Dad said he would run to the restroom. He left...with the tickets. No sooner had he disappeared than the doors opened, and all the people around us filed inside to take our seats.

Dad finally returned, and we went inside. Now for me, finding a seat is no big deal. You find something in the back, on the aisle.

This is not the philosophy of my parents.

"Now," my mother said, "Do you want the back of the front section, the front of the back/middle section, or the front of the back/side section?"

"I just want an aisle," was my reply.

After much debate, we chose the middle of the back middle on the aisle. We had hardly settled in, when Mom and I decided we needed to check our hair. We left Dad with our coats and went out for a hair check. When we returned and settled in, I was on the aisle, Dad was in the middle, and Mom sat on the other side of him. Every two seconds, I leaned across Dad to point someone out to Mom. Apparently that became quickly unamusing for Dad, who stood to trade places with Mom.

We had just gotten comfortable, when Dad decided to spring for one more restroom break. Mom and I stood to let him out and then of course a few minutes later, we stood to let him back in. Fantastic. So far we've all acted like a bunch of two year olds!

At last, we settled in for good...just in time for the concert to begin. Everything was fine for a while, and then Mom dropped her program on the floor. Dad leaned over to pick it up. She dropped it again. {Did I mention the two year olds....?} It was right about then that I had a flashback from my early years. I seemed to remember having similar papers snatched from my hands when I proved unable to hold onto them. Wisely, I refrained from doing the same.

We were okay again for a while, and then I realized there was a family behind us who had apparently not learned the rule about staying home from cultural events when sick. First the dad coughed...then the mom, then the kid. It was an assembly line...right down the row they went. I squirmed, feeling like I was stuck in a doctor's office, entirely distracted by the coughing. I was actually fighting the same problem, but I gave it my best shot to wait until the soloists were done and the choir joined in before I coughed.

Right about then, it came time for the Hallelujah chorus. If you didn't know, that is actually not the final song of The Messiah. Dad was ready, and reading ahead, even. I think the first note might have started before he jumped to his feet. Everyone else was still untangling their feet from the cramped quarters of the aisle, but Dad was straight and tall.

Apparently culture did exist in the family.

And I thought we were home free at that point...but I was not so fortunate. One of the soloists was sick and decided at the last minute to skip his final solo. My ever-attentive-to-the-program parents picked up on this and began trying to figure it out during the sixty-fold "Amen" at the end. I considered, at that point, snapping my fingers sharply like they used to do to me when I talked out of turn. But again, I wisely refrained.

The music ended, and the obligatory wave of a standing ovation began. I waited until the people in front of me stood and then I joined and clapped. I had probably been standing for ten seconds or so when I realized not everyone in the room was standing. All the people in the entire auditorium were on their feet, except two. And I bet you can guess where they were sitting.

Beside me. Discussing the missed solo. Still.

In total exasperation my role reversal parenting skills kicked in, and I gave them my best pursed-lips-parent look and tapped Mom on the shoulder.

THEN we were all standing.

Despite the exhaustion, I remained very proud that my parents attended a cultural event and had done fairly well. I made notes to go over the standing/sitting/bathroom break/dropping programs/talking thing, but overall, I was pleased.

And maybe, in ten years or so, I'll have the courage to try again!