“Stop sending me letters asking me to send you my poo!” she snapped. “I’m not mailing anyone my poo! I am too old for such nonsense!”

Great civilizations did not ask their citizens to send their excreta to the government. Did Rome? Fanny fumed. Charlemagne? Tommy Douglas? Storming into her bedroom, she proceeded to get dressed for her community band’s annual Christmas concert. The dress code had recently changed from a white-collared blouse with black dress slacks to a black blouse. As she pulled on a black cotton blouse, Fanny hoped to God she had gotten it right and the band wasn’t waiting to switch to all black for the spring concert instead. Just my luck, I’ll be the only one wearing black in a sea of white shirts, she fretted. She carted her music folder, along with the tote bag that contained her mallets, out to her ancient Volvo, then thumped down into the driver’s seat and zipped across the city to the high school where her band practiced and performed.

Four years before, at age sixty, Fanny had hit her second wind. It wasn’t sexual … exactly. It certainly wasn’t religious. One minus-thirty-degree day while she was washing her hair, the power went off. For ten minutes, she dithered as the house grew cold; then she got out a pair of scissors and sheared off her long locks. To even things out, she then shaved her scalp. She emerged from this process resembling a bleached, wizened raisin-head—and, inexplicably, afire with confidence. Suddenly, there were so many people she wanted to tell, Honey, you are just one grain of sand on my beach.

These days, she kept her hair cropped and shaved her scalp every July. Having to face the world without a gleaming river of hair gave her kick-ass permission to step into her age and an unapologetically unenhanced appearance. She was old, she was plain, she was the brown Smartie in a pack, and she liked it. Turning into the high school parking lot, she edged the Volvo into an empty spot and scurried through minus twenty-seven degrees to the entrance. To her relief, she found the lobby crowded with band members dressed entirely in concert black and calling out greetings as they stomped snow from polished black dress shoes. Fanny skirted trombone and tuba cases, and headed into the auditorium to survey the stage. Percussionists were the workhorses of any concert band. While others carried flutes and trumpets, percussionists hauled timpani, tubular bells, and gongs. If one more clarinetist complained because she had wheeled a vibraphone into his self-absorbed trajectory, Fanny was going to sharp his F.

On the stage, a few music stands had been set up, but none of the percussion instruments were in evidence. Which meant that the percussion section’s sole other member (and leader), Mario Terisigni, hadn’t yet arrived. With a sigh, Fanny headed into the music classroom that adjoined the stage and started hauling timpani. She had just set up the last mallets tray between the xylophone and the bass drum, when she spotted Ryan Mithoff taking up his position behind the glockenspiel.

In his late twenties, Ryan played in a local indie-rock group and a jazz band, and also filled in as needed at the symphony. A nephew of Mario’s, he did his uncle the favor of dropping in for the community band’s concerts. A percussionist of obvious talent, Ryan carried the aura of someone headed for bright lights and big cities. The problem, as far as Fanny was concerned, was that his ego insisted on crashing cymbals nonstop in his own honor. To make things worse, two weeks ago Mario had sidled over during their weekly practice and mumbled that she was going to have to give up half of her mallets parts in “The Nightmare Before Christmas” to Ryan “so he’ll have something to play at the concert.”

Mario, of course, wasn’t surrendering any of his own parts to polish his nephew’s ego. I’ve been practicing those parts for months! Fanny had protested silently. No one told me I was paying membership fees to act as an understudy!

Ryan had attended last week’s practice. As usual, he’d annoyed the heck out of her, and Fanny had spent the intervening week mentally preparing herself for another encounter; at the sight of him now, her wattle stiffened. For his part, Ryan did not greet or acknowledge her in any way. Without shucking his jacket, he pulled a set of rubber mallets from his tote bag and started playing a single riff repeatedly on the glockenspiel. The riff was familiar. Dismay opened a sinkhole in Fanny’s gut.

“Excuse me,” she said, approaching. “Why are you playing the marimba part from ‘The Nightmare Before Christmas’? I gave you the glockenspiel, chimes, and auxiliary parts. I am playing the marimba, the xylophone, and the vibraphone parts.”

Slack-jawed with concentration, Ryan didn’t look up. Under his disciplined hands, the musical phrase played out at thrice the speed Fanny could have pulled off – though she could manage it competently at the speed the piece required. “After last week’s practice, Yussef asked me to play along with you on the marimba part,” he informed her briskly. “Needs to be stronger there – neither of us could hear you. Yussef asked me to help you out.”

The sneer in his voice was symphonic. Tall and thin, Ryan had mastered the art of converting bad acne and a pronounced slouch into mean-streak cool with those he considered his underlings. At five-foot-four, chubby and bespectacled, Fanny apparently qualified. Her wattle begged to differ. Yussef was the band conductor, and while his respect for Ryan’s musical prowess was inarguable, Fanny and her wattle doubted that he had initiated the suggestion that Ryan join in on the marimba part. It was far more likely Ryan had mentioned that Fanny’s playing was weak at that point, and Yussef had then agreed Ryan should accompany her on the glockenspiel. But if Fanny approached Yussef to clarify this situation in the mayhem before a concert, she would come off as spiteful and childish.

Turning on her heel, she left Ryan displaying his superstar ability to no one. The guy was impossible to like, and she had better things to do than stand around marinating in rage. She headed stage right, through the doorway that opened onto the music classroom. This room was tiered, with a baby grand piano and the teacher’s desk just inside the door; the percussion section occupied the top three tiers. Dressed in black, flutists, trombonists, and French horn players were warming up; Fanny passed Yussef in a black tux, organizing his scores at a podium beside the piano. A female clarinetist, catching sight of her, called, “Setting up all on your lonely again?”

Fanny grinned back, her mood transposing from minor to major. “Lonely and busy,” she replied and started up to the nosebleeds. Tonight the percussion area was about fifty percent empty floor space, the best instruments having been moved to the stage. Taking out her music, she positioned herself behind the second-best xylophone and began running the marimba riff over and over. The part had to be played on an alternative instrument because the high school owned no marimbas; regardless of which instrument she played, Fanny knew she had to get it right. The riff lasted for only four bars, but it occurred at a point during which most of the band went quiet and she played virtually alone … at least she’d been playing it alone until tonight.

Hearty male voices broke out to Fanny’s right and she glanced over to see Mario shrug off his coat as he greeted Ryan, who had migrated in from the stage. “Mario,” she called, “everything’s set up. I tuned the timps, but you’ll want to double-check.”

Mario gave a disheveled nod and headed down the tiers. In his wake, Ryan took up position behind a battered glockenspiel that stood beside Fanny’s xylophone. Without glancing at her, he sing-songed, “Are you ready for a goooo-od concert?”

Fanny’s wattle tightened. She considered her options and decided on sudden deafness; without comment, she returned to repeated runs at the marimba solo. Immediately, Ryan jumped in on the glockenspiel, keeping pace note for note. Fanny had been practicing this riff all week, running through it fifty times a night to get it note-perfect for the concert; but the second Ryan joined in, she felt as if a gigantic mouth had glommed onto her soul and was sucking out her confidence. Dropping her mallets onto the keyboard, she stormed out of the classroom and headed for the women’s washroom, where she sat mulling over the situation on a toilet. Her joy had been hijacked; she had been shown up as a childish dabbler-musician in her dotage. Perhaps it was time to downsize her expectations.

But Fanny’s wattle refused to downsize. When she emerged from the cubicle, she spotted it in the mirror, bristling furiously. She gave it an affectionate tug. Plain and predictable – she looked like an assumption. We’ll see about that, she decided.

Returning to the classroom, she discovered Yussef taking the band through a practice run on a Christmas carol medley. She scooted in behind the xylophone. Mario was ten feet to her left, covering the drum kit as was his wont; Ryan hovered in her right peripheral vision, filling in on auxiliary parts as necessary. Fanny hadn’t been asked to give up any parts in this piece; locating her place near the bottom of the first page, she dove in. Flutes trilled, the lead trumpeter soared, trombones strutted their bass line. Suddenly, a cataclysmic cymbal crash erupted behind her, catching her off guard. She doubled over, hands clasped to the sides of her head as pain bloomed in her ears. Pivoting, she spotted Ryan on the tier directly behind her, cymbals raised, his gaze fixed on his score, apparently unaware of her distress. Mario gave no sign of having noticed either, and the rest of the band played on, every eye fixed on Yussef, who was following his score. Fanny dropped her gaze to her own music. Until this moment, she hadn’t realized that cymbals appeared in this piece. During band practices, she and Mario did their best covering the most important parts, and the rest remained a silent mystery … until someone “filled in” and brought them to life.

He must have seen me – I was right in front of him! she seethed, trying to refocus on her score. He could have stepped to the side before crashing them, or backed up –

Behind her, the cymbals crashed again, the sound wave slamming into the back of her head and savaging her ears. Incredulity, then rage, shoved aside the pain, and Fanny swung round, ready to launch herself fist-first at Ryan’s sneer. But the tier behind her was now vacant, Ryan having returned to his former position at the glockenspiel, where he stood, mallets poised. To Fanny’s left, Mario sat calmly, rat-a-tat-tatting on the snare drum. At the podium, Yussef glanced at the flutists and cued them for a solo. Everything and everyone looked well-intentioned.

And maybe everyone was. After all, thought Fanny, she hadn’t actually seen Ryan’s gaze fixed on her as he brought the cymbals together directly behind her head. And he was new to the score, scrambling to keep up with all of the auxiliary parts he had to play. Furthermore, it wasn’t his fault the cymbals had been placed behind the xylophone. Ryan himself hadn’t set them there … had he?

Fanny couldn’t remember. Her ears were throbbing and she’d lost her place in the music. Frustrated, she stood waiting out the piece; fortunately, no one seemed to notice she wasn’t playing along. When they finished, Yussef led the band through the intros on their remaining pieces, which, to Fanny’s relief, didn’t include any marimba solos. Dismissed, individual players headed out to the stage.

The auditorium was filling up – the Christmas concert was popular with family and friends. Fanny checked the program to ensure her score copies were arranged in order on her stand, then stood as inconspicuously as possible behind the xylophone. Cellphone videos of previous events had taught her how visible percussionists were. Other band members sat as they played, but the percussion section generally stood throughout a concert, and every little gesture, every facial expression communicated. Murderous rage would draw attention; she was going to have to keep her cool. For now, Ryan was keeping his distance, lurking in the wings, but Fanny’s wattle brooded; it was not happy at all.

The concert got underway, Yussef bending and swaying as he dramatized every baton stroke. The theatricality was for the audience’s benefit; in weekly practice sessions, he conducted from the wrist, not the knees. Fanny supposed it helped get the audience into a stirring mood. The opening piece placed her on the hand drums, playing a reggae beat to the Jamaican carol, “Long Time Ago In Bethlehem.” Mario and The Prick were temporarily at the opposite end of the stage on the snare and the tambourine. The cymbals were positioned beside the drum kit, well away from the xylophone – Fanny had shifted them there herself, minutes earlier. By the time the band started Mariah Carey’s “All I Want For Christmas,” the pain in her ears was receding. She had to fake a tricky run on the vibraphone on the bottom of page one, but since everyone else was also simultaneously faking the same run, she fit in fine. The next piece was a snorer – Fanny tinkled the triangle here and there, and Mario had two quiet timpani rolls. Ryan haughtily sat this one out.

The band was playing well, the applause warm and generous. Fanny hadn’t made any major mistakes, as she had during last year’s spring concert when she had misread a guest conductor’s baton-waving pattern and ended up playing at half-speed. Tonight, in spite of the apocalyptic cymbal incident, she appeared to be on a roll. Yussef cued “The Nightmare Before Christmas,” the evening’s grand finale. Fanny eased in behind the xylophone as Ryan strolled over to take up position at the glockenspiel to her right. Inches apart, they stood elbow to elbow.

The now-shared marimba part appeared near the beginning of the piece, at bar twenty-six. Vaguely, Fanny heard Ryan come in on a glockenspiel riff at bar eight. Over the top of her score, she watched the lift and fall of Yussef’s baton … and then the moment arrived, the baton rising in order to drop for bar twenty-six, signaling the first downbeat of the marimba solo.

Fanny jumped the downbeat by a hair, her mallet striking the first note ever so slightly ahead of the beat. The fraction of a second involved was so minuscule, only one other person would have noticed, and she took in his response in her peripheral vision – right mallet frozen in an upright position, ready to descend exactly in time with the downbeat as she took off into the rest of the solo. Once she had started the riff without him, Ryan couldn’t join in without playing out of sync, and though he would have been correct, to the audience it would have registered as error. And so he had to let it go, listening as Fanny nailed the entire riff, each note sounding clearly and accurately.

“The Nightmare Before Christmas” played to its crazed finale, Ryan over by the cymbals,

Fanny aglow on the xylophone. The audience rose to its feet in a Carnegie Hall ovation as Fanny’s wattle flew triumphantly below her chin. Collecting her various mallets, she inserted them into her tote bag, then tucked the bag and her music folder under an arm and headed across the stage.

Ten feet from the music classroom door, Ryan was standing motionless as the rest of the band streamed past. His moody gaze was fixed on the middle distance; he looked pale and tired, underweight, his acne in high definition under the stage lights. He was a kid, Fanny realized – a kid with a carcinogenic inferiority complex and a lifetime of hard lessons ahead that he would, no doubt, make harder with his attitude. And she felt not the slightest walking bass-line of sympathy for him.

She paused as she drew abreast, and singsonged, “Goooo-od concert.” But Ryan stared vacantly ahead, as if suddenly deaf, and she walked on.

When Life Speaks Listen

by Linda Piotrowski

    Our lives are filled with moments so fleeting that it can be easy to miss the great impact they may have on us. That is, unless we learn to listen when life speaks, even if only in a whisper. Author Linda F. Piotrowski is a master of listening and learning from all life has to offer. She is a retired board certified chaplain with a master's degree in theological studies as well as advanced study in palliative care and being with the dying. She ministered as a chaplain for over 40 years. In her retirement she serves as a Stephen Minister.   Always an avid reader she loves reflecting on the rich gifts of ordinary life. She lives in Green Valley, Arizona with her Maine Coon cat, O'Malley. This is her first book. Through reflections,  beautiful photographs, questions for reflection, and suggestions for journaling Linda unpacks many of life’s lessons, as learned through events from childhood through the adult years, and shows you how to do the same.   You will start with learning to honor your origins, teasing out the minute day-to-day moments as well as major events that have shaped you.From there you will explore what makes you all you are today—your little rituals, what feeds your soul, what makes you ache, and who or what guides you. Finally, you will explore what will move you forward and ready you for what lies ahead in your life. Learn to embrace what serves you, and release the rest.   As Piotrowski says, this book will guide you to, “Find your way to the ‘holy and hidden’ heart of your life.”  

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