Since I’m clumsy as all-get-out and tone-deaf I wasn’t in the Bryan Station Defenders Marching Band. Even handing me a pole with a flag at the end would have guaranteed a couple of concussions during the first week of Band Camp. Seriously. I admired them tremendously!
But I married a drummer. Yeah, he’d been a drummer during high school, but he was older, and had turned down a music scholarship at UofL and an offer to tour in favor of a full-time management position with the company he’d been working for part-time.
He hired me after a glance through the kitchen to the front counter about ten minutes before he went on vacation. I suppose he thought I’d look good in orange and brown polyester. No one does.
When he got back from vacation I slammed through the door to the kitchen at my usual fast pace and tumbled him into a stack of five-gallon pickle buckets. Then I promptly spilled an entire gallon of French dressing (who eats that?) near the salad bar. I was sure one or the other would get me fired, but instead it got me asked out after a staff party.
Several years later we got married, and eventually we had kids. Two boys, two drummers. I understood nothing about band, but the Band Director’s definition of “on time” synced with mine no matter what my boys said!
If you’re thirty minutes early you’re early. If you’re fifteen minutes early you’re on time. If you’re on time you’re late. If you’re fifteen minutes late there will be hell to pay.
I must have been a band kid in a previous life. Check out Mama Kat on Thursday to see what everyone else has to say!