The Absolute Worst Thing In The World
The Wand of Auditory Death
Ever stopped to ponder what the worst thing in the world would be?
The atomic bomb? Being torn apart by wild dogs? Having zero access to shoe shopping?
Nope. It’s the recorder.
Our attic is a trove of long forgotten and mostly useless memorabilia. We remain in possession of every Auburn University sports program printed between the years 1970-1998. We are overflowing with boxes of now outdated medical journals. And we are still holding cassette tapes, VCRs, luggage from the time before wheels, and an unreasonably large collection of paraphernalia relating to my 6-year-old obsession with the movie Annie.
Several years ago, unbeknownst to either Diane* or me, the nieces made their way into the attic and managed to unearth someone’s old recorder. It was the find of the century, an item capable of creating loud noises and made of industrial grade plastic that can never be broken or destroyed. I told them it was a Thach Road company policy that all musical instruments must be played outside. Luckily, they were too distracted to raise questions about the baby grand piano parked in the foyer.
The sound of the recorder was only slightly muffled as Niece #1 stood in the yard outside the breakfast room window blowing. After what seemed like a not short prison term, she took a break and put the recorder down on the steps by the backdoor. As soon as she let it go, I disappeared it underneath an upholstered chair in my bedroom. It was a couple of hours later when she was ready to blow again, that she asked me where it was. I looked directly into her face and said, “I don’t know, Honey. Where did you leave it?” My acting degree does, as it turns out, have its usefulness.
I can remember the sound of the recorders shaking the walls our lower school music classroom; I have since wondered if dear Mrs. Balkom suffered from hearing loss or if she ever did time in a mental health facility. The sound was horrible. I once actually witnessed the sounds of a coyote mauling the nextdoor cat to death. Compared to the recorder, that sound was blissful.
I understand the benefit of learning to clap your hands in rhythm and I am all in favor of singing the notes on a Do-Re-Mi scale. However, I do not understand the benefit of having a group of 7-year-olds mouth fire the recorder. If it is musical prowess we are after, why not begin with an actual instrument?
Diane began us on the violin. My sister was 4 and I was 6 1/2 when we first placed our tiny hands on a violin in the E Sharp Studio of Mrs. Lizanne Harbuck. I am not sure if it was our age, lack of innate ability, or severe attention deficit disorder, but our progress was limited. Week in and week out we sawed away at such classics as Twinkle, Twinkle, Little Star and Mississippi Hot Dog; there was no future Itzhak Perlman among us. But as every good childhood activity must, come May, there was to be a recital. The recital would show off what our parents had paid for and what, if anything, we had learned.
Mrs. Harbuck was no dummy. She was well aware that a kiddie violin recital promised to be more than a snooze. It was to be excruciating. Thus, she threw in some truly brilliant stagecraft to shake things up a bit. We would be part violin players and part tiny theatrical show choir. The recital began NOT with violin playing, but with a round of singing and dancing to the song, “High Hopes.” The song was accompanied by some child-friendly choreography involving pointing, turning in circles, and jumping, stuff we were way more into than the bowing of Three Blind Mice. The recital went forward; each short scratchy violin nightmare gave way to a song and dance break. The big finale found us marching around the room with our violins tucked under one arm as our other arm pointed straight to the sky indicating the commitment to our High Hopes. The parents were delighted and that bought everyone another year in E Sharp Studio. To this day, I can still sing High Hopes in its entirety on demand.
Once I had reached the third-grade I was well past the introductory phase of music education. Not only had I learned possibly 3 notes on an actual violin, I had also mastered the art of singing while pointing. So, when the recorder was introduced, it struck me as a pathetic regression. But the recorder was a requirement. Our parents were required to purchase one and then we were required to take it home and practice. I have often wondered what professional recorder sounds like. I think it sounds like amateur recorder. Or simply a factory whistle launched at full decibel inside your kitchen. Or someone hitting you directly in your ear canal with a metal baseball bat.
As the nieces were reaching a frenzy in search of the lost recorder, Diane dragged me aside and demanded I tell her what I had done with it.
“Zip it, Diane. I am doing us a favor.” I told her. But she wouldn’t take it.
“It’s gone mom, let it go.” I told her.
“Did you throw that thing AWAY?” she sounded incredulous.
“It’s GONE. Walk away, Diane.” I hissed.
She was furious that I had spoiled the activity for them. Puhlease. Because of me, she can still hear Mariska Hargitay’s voice on Law and Order: SVU.
A year or so later, I received a call from Diane inquiring once again as to the whereabouts of the recorder. By that time I honestly had no idea where I had stashed it. She called me three times in a desperate bid to locate it. And she would not believe me that I couldn’t remember. Then she called me “mean.”
“I am so angry with you! You are just awful! And MEAN!” She hung up on me infuriated.
I will never know how, but in the absence of the recorder, she managed to locate her old “tonette” in the attic mess. For reference, a tonette is the 1950’s version of the recorder. How we are still in possession of THIS particular item defies all understanding. She called me back later to inform me that she had a terrible headache and was, “about deaf.” I simply said, “You have done this to yourself,” and hung up.
One would think that that signaled the end of any pertinent recorder tales. Yet in a painful and horrific twist of fate, The Hot Urologist’s youngest child located a recorder this morning and has been blowing his lungs out. He has blown it so hard I am no longer able to see in color. I waited for the moment he set it down and seized the opportunity. I threw the Made in China ear drum destroyer directly into the dumpster outside and covered it with some old coffee grounds and a crushed pizza box. I took no chances for it to be recovered.
The child did not get the full memo on the name and continues to ask about his “racktor.” As I recounted the saga to The Hot Urologist, he had the nerve to posit the idea that the recorder might be needed again at school. For a genius he certainly is slow. If the recorder is required again, we will obviously change schools. He seemed stunned with my candor, but then, he still had eardrums…
*If you are new, Diane was my beloved mother and she is my all-time favorite character and person.