Wiggling Fingers & Puffing Cheeks

Father's Day is this Sunday.  The church usually gives the men a little something. It usually has a Scripture on it.   A pen.  A bookmark.

Personally, I'd kinda like a coupon for a big burger, .but the thought is nice.

One Father's Day, during "empty nesting", we got back from church and the Wife went down for a nap.  It was just me and The Chair.  And the best thing on TV was a Public Television show called "Great Performances".

I watched this big orchestra and a huge choir being admonished by a bald-headed guy in a Nehru jacket slashing away with a stick.

I settled back deeper, my mind quietly riding the mellow stream of music flowing from the TV.   My thoughts turned over the memories of being a Dad.

Bringing babies home.  Playing.  Teaching 'em stuff.  Reading.  Cuddling.  All the good stuff.

Then the Nehru jacket-guy began to air-whip the group into a growing, thundering anthem.  Suddenly a filing cabinet in my mind slid open and all the regrets of fatherhood started to spill out.

And there, peeking out of a file, was the face of...Merle.

Merle.  Now WHY would I remember Merle on Father's Day while watching Public Television?

Oh.  Yeah.  Okay.

Merle was this really tall skinny kid a year behind me in high school.  Good guy.  We both played clarinet in the school band.

My senior year, the Band Director slapped together a clarinet quartet for District Competitions.

There was Cindy, who could actually play because she would actually practice, some other kid I don't remember, Merle, and me.

Not exactly what you'd call a "Dream Team".

The Band Director gave us the music two months before.

"OK.  Practice this every day.  You can do it!"

A command that ranked right up there with "clean your room" and "eat your vegetables".

I took the music home.  And I did look at it.  It was like some madman with a brush full of ink kept sneezing.

Dots.

Lotsa dots.

And over the next two months, I would practice for 15 minutes, lose heart, and retreat to something I was good at.

(It should be noted that shooting baskets has no transfer of skill to the clarinet.)

The day of reckoning arrived.  The four of us sat in a small room in front of a judge who's body language stated he was in the third year of a ten year sentence - with no chance of parole.

I sat next to Cindy, across from Merle, his face easily clearing the music stand.  Off to the left, I saw the judge bracing for the onslaught.

Cindy gave a soft chant, "1...2...3" and made a downward motion with her clarinet.

And we're off.

I mean, really, we were off.

Cindy was in hot pursuit of the stampede of notes, the other kid doing a decent job of staying with her.

I spun out on the first page as the quartet started to sound a bit thin.

My eyes flew around the pages.

Oh, momma...where are we?

I puffed my cheeks and wiggled my fingers, my instrument silent, searching for a landmark to get back on track.

I glanced over the top of the music stand.  Merle's squinting face was hunched forward, his cheeks puffed, his fingers wiggling.

He wasn't playing either.

We made eye contact.  He suddenly stopped, screwed a half-smile around the mouthpiece, shrugged, then dove back into it, trying to find that landmark.

A couple of minutes later, we found the current note, got on the same page, and staggered over the finish line together.

So, on this Father's Day, I'm taking Merle's lesson to heart.  And it might be the most important lesson about Fatherhood.

"Don't give up."

When I don't know what I'm doing and the music has gotten away from me, I need to keep wiggling my fingers and puffin' those cheeks.

Frantically watching, and praying, and loving.

And never giving up.

I have a Father who always watches over me.  He knows the tune and He never gives up. 

So, He'll help me play The Dad's Tune.  And He reminds me, "don't ever give up."

And, now, if I may ask a favor of you, dear reader...

Would you mind turning the page for me?

I'm kinda busy wiggling here.

Thanks.