November 30, 2011
One more week of classes remains.
Next Wednesday at 5.20 pm, I will officially end the last class of the fall term.
Hallelujah.
Not that there won't be any work to do.
There is still the daunting pile o'marking to tackle.
Scrapping together of funds for Christmas gifts.
Baking.
Oh, gawd, baking.
And then the return to preparations for next term's classes.
No film class next term.
But a fourth year seminar, Ethnography and Crime.
The second term of my intro to crim class.
More methods students.
All I want?
Peace and quiet.
So simple to say.
So, so difficult to attain.
As another Christmas season makes it way towards us with the speed of a freight train, I am again reminded of how much I dislike this time of year.
Not the getting together with family stuff.
That I like.
But the grossly indecent marketing and consumption of goods.
People attempting to buy their children's affections.
Rudeness replacing Christmas spirit.
But. . . .
What I do miss are the kid's Christmas concerts.
I genuinely loved attending the school concerts where parents who had just fought with their kids to get ready for school, to wear this dress because you're on stage singing this morning, and yes you have to wear a button down shirt and tie because I said so, are now reduced to waving, smiling lunatics as their children march onto the stage, scanning the audience for their parent's faces and waving arms, cameras clicking like paparazzi trying to catch the latest glimpse of Kim Kardashian unnaturally elongated eye lashes.
Meredyth, of course, LOVED Christmas concert day.
It was the only day of the year I didn't have to fight with her to get ready for school.
She could barely contain the excitement of being on stage, walking onto the stage like a true diva meeting her admirers, smiling her special Meredyth smile as she and her classmates sang the tunes meant to welcome the Christmas spirit into the audience's midst.
And Mer always gave it her all.
She outsang, outgestured, outperformed every child who had the misfortune of being on the stage with her.
Once she even pushed a potential suitor out of her way when he attempted to kiss her following a performance.
He also happened to be the son of one of my professors.
Of course he did.
Keith was not as excited.
Ever.
In fact, he could have done without the being on stage part altogether and it wouldn't have bothered him one iota.
But if he had to be there, he was going to do his best.
Whether wearing his mother's apron to sing about making Christmas cookies, or banging homemade drums, he did do with aplomb.
Emily was the least excited and least willing of my little chicks.
She would stomp on stage, face awash in her patented Emily scowl.
Perhaps thinking of all of the things she would so much rather be doing at the time.
I will say she never shirked her duty to her class to get up on that stage and do what they had been training to do.
She was always aware that this was a non-negotiable task.
But she didn't have to pretend to like it.
And being Em, she didn't.
Arms crossed along her chest, she was there and asking her to enjoy it or be excited about it was just begging for trouble.
Usually by the time everyone had settled into their appointed places, the teacher in front of them waving her arms as if she actually knew what she was doing, Em already noting that I was present and on time, she would relax her arms and sing her song.
Manage a couple of dance moves if they were required.
But never did she ever give the impression she was enjoying herself.
And if I didn't think I'd be arrested, I go to them now.
Each travelling from one school to the next until I was full to the brim of Christmas concerts.
Luckily, I have my mother to fill the void.
Tonight, at 6.30, I will be attending the Pine Grove Handbell Choir Christmas concert.
Just like the kids, my mother will scan the crowd to see if I'm there.
As if I would dare not to be.
I'll have my camera with me, ready to capture for eternity my mother's smiling face as she rings her bell . . .
. . . . .o8777ffffff c7777iu: Dibley looking for love in all the wrong places at the wrong time, 6666666, wanting to make a contribution to my blog and now stomping away in anger and disgust as I have removed him from the keyboard for the umpteenth time. . . .
The cookies and punch afterwards.
And then the eventual coming home.
It's going to be a long, long day.
But if there is an amateur concert in the mix, I am certain I'll survive.
And if you see me at any school concerts don't ask me what I'm doing there.
Title Lyric: The Children Singing by Story of the Year
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