PAgent’s Progress

The Girl went to band camp at the coast yesterday. Since The Wife had already gone to the coast and back last week, and was still recovering from it, it fell on me to provide transport. In other words, my responsibility as a father required me to drive out to the coast. Bitchin’.

My daughter packed enough gear for an entire week away from home, we loaded her battered tuba into the back seat of the Corolla, and then away we went.

It was a beautiful, beautiful day. The sun was blazing down, but the temperatures were still mild, and there was a lovely breeze. It was a perfect day for rolling the windows down, putting on sunglasses, and heading to the ocean.

As is usually the case when we are alone, my obnoxious thirteen-year-old girl turned into a delightful travelling companion. She has discovered Monty Python, and so some time in the car was spent reciting favorite quotes. We talked about band, and music, and being away from home. It was a great drive. Right now these moments only happen rarely, when we can be alone together, and away from home, but they give me hope for the future. I feel like I can almost see the kind of relationship we might have once she is an adult, and it fills me with joy and anticipation. Just as long as I can keep from killing her before she gets there.

I wanted her to have some lunch before we got to the camp itself, so we stopped in Rockaway Beach and looked for a bite to eat. As we walked up the sidewalk on Highway 101, she suddenly she pointed at a ramshackle little building set back from the street, with a sign indicating that it was the “Old Oregon Smokehouse”.

“This place is great! I went there with Uncle Bear! And they have lots of cats!” I was somewhat dubious, but we were running out of time, so we ordered some clam chowder for her, and halibut fish and chips for me.

I’d like to apologize to the Old Oregon Smokehouse for any reservations I might have had about eating there. The food was exquisite. The very lightly battered halibut was firm, flavorful, and moist. It really had an excellent flavor, the kind you can only achieve with fish that’s painfully fresh. The french fries were crispy nuggets of awesome as well, and served with dipping sauce. The chowder had a strong and distinctive flavor, different from the majority of chowders you find at every cafe on the coast. I’m thinking there was a lot of thyme in there. But most of all it was thick and creamy without being the slightest bit glutinous, which I hate in chowders.

There is a much better picture of the Old Oregon Smokehouse by Justin Hawthorne here on Flickr. If you’re passing through Rockaway Beach, you owe it to yourself to stop in.

Checking into camp went smoothly, and included an audition. The Girl was looking at her music, warming up on her tuba, and generally being very nervous. She was concerned about the audition, but surprisingly also concerned that she wouldn’t know anyone at camp. Fortunately before I left she had already connected with someone from her school band, and I don’t doubt that there were more there.

It’s a side I rarely see from her. She’s got so much self-confidence (perhaps a touch too much?) that I never picture her faltering or hesitating. Maybe this is another aspect of her increasing maturity shining through.

After her audition, we put her stuff on her bunk, and I said goodbye. I know she’s going to have a good time this week. The camp looked like a hotel, with well-tended grounds, a lake to swim in, volleyball courts, and multiple outbuildings. As long as she finds one or two friends to connect with, she should be fine. And I know she will try to get the most out of the music instruction there.

Now that I was without child, I pondered what to do before heading back. Unfortunately, I really didn’t have all that much time, and my knees in particular were bothering me. Nevertheless I went to a nearby state park and hiked over the dunes to the beach.

The wind, which had been a well-mannered breeze inland, was howling across the sand. Aside from the wind-driven sand particles exfoliating my face, the resulting windchill made it a less than delightful oceanside experience. I didn’t spend too much time there before hiking slowly back over the hill and heading home. That was when I realized that the cooling effect of the wind also kept me from noticing how sunburned my forearms were getting. They are glowing a nice cheery red today, thank you very much.

We pick The Girl up next weekend, and I’m honestly looking forward to the concert they will provide. The bickering and fighting after we get home? Not so much.

Last Thursday was the “World’s Fair” at my daughter’s middle school. It was also the debut of this year’s marching band, and therefore the debut of my daughter IN a marching band. She is playing sousaphone–the few, the proud, the very low.

I’ve discussed my feelings about school functions previously. To be succinct, they are an endurance contest for me. So I was less than thrilled about having to go to this one straight from work.

But when they marched the band into the gymnasium, to the steady cadence of a single snare drum in the drum line, it was a different story. I get a little silly about marching bands, which is a little odd because I never marched in one. But I love to hear them.

The band had worked up two classic tunes, “Jenny (867-5309)” and “Carry On My Wayward Son”, and the audience definitely appreciated both of them. And they were really quite good, much better than I expected them to be.

What really warmed my heart, though, was seeing my daughter. When the band marched out of the gym, unlike some of her peers, she was still keeping an even cadence, head high, and a blank expression. She was taking this very seriously.

At a time when we are having such trouble getting her to take so many things more seriously (especially things like her grades), it is a special gift to see her work so hard on something, especially when she does so without urging.

And that seriousness was still there on Saturday, when the band marched in the annual St. John’s parade. The Wife took her to school, and acted as chaperone on the bus ride, while I stayed home and cleaned the house with The Boy. I got a phone call mid-morning from my wife’s cellphone, and when I picked it up, it was my daughter. It was hard to hear her over the sounds of happy screaming in the background.

“Dad! We won!” I could hear the excitement in her voice. Her band had taken first place in the band competition before the parade. Their victory was made all the sweeter because some kids from another band had been mocking their uniforms before the competition. Our middle school opts for an affordable approach, consisting of matching T-shirts and embroidered baseball caps. The caps, in particular, look very nice, and very professional. But of course there are schools that spend hundreds of dollars on band uniforms, and they can look very spiffy, indeed.

It just may be that those snarky kids, and their condescending attitude, provided that last little bit of motivation to really solidify the performance. I don’t know. What I do know is that, in addition to learning discipline, cooperation, precision, and musicianship, her experience with marching band has started teaching her that practice, showmanship, and talent will trump a fancy uniform. And that’s precisely the kind of lesson I want her to learn.