The Few, The Proud, The Out of Tune

Like many a father, my Dad sat through any number of Christmas programs, chorus concerts, and band concerts.  My only regret is that I quit being involved in those types of things by the time I might have been capable enough to make attending them less of a chore.
I don’t wish to sound like I resent attending my son’s events now, far from it, but I do hold out hope that my son will stick with them longer than I managed to do.
I can tell he’s gotten better.  He plays trombone and his early efforts, while he was first learning to play, had a strong resemblance to a flatulent moose.  “Blarp! Blurrrrrrp!” followed by other noises which words have not been found to describe. I might have known them once, but they were lost in the Great Brain Cell Massacre my sophomore year of college.
Nowadays he merely sounds like a lovesick moose to the point that the smallest dog feels ccompelled to sing along in case he succeeds in calling anything, the smallest dog having delusions of grandeur of being a Mighty Hunter, at least Angry Bird toys.  He kills several every night.  Dog has a richer fantasy life than I do.  I’d settle for having all the bills paid and a little money left over once in a while.
But all in all the boy is improving to the point I can imagine myself going to one of his concerts and not cringing, which is, like I said, farther than I ever got.
And now, here I am, ready for the concert, appreciative of my Dad for sitting through all those concerts for the payoff that never came, and of my son, who is sticking to it longer than I ever did.

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