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roina_arwenMusic makes me happy. It always has…or very nearly so. Sadly, I am not talented when it comes to creating music, and have tried my hand at several different instruments over the years. In middle school it was the alto clarinet. I had a brief tryst with a violin during fifth grade, and of course who didn’t make music—and I use that term loosely—on the requisite recorder during our earliest school years?
If you didn’t have that pleasure, I can assure you, you didn’t miss much.
Even so, only one instrument in all my fifty-plus years ever got me into trouble, and made not only myself but my entire family unhappy. You, dear reader, would be hard pressed to guess what item had the dubious honor of causing such a ruckus, so I’ll just tell you.
It was the xylophone.
To be more specific, it was the Fisher Price Pull-A-Tune xylophone circa 1971. It was brand new, and I was only slightly used at the time, being an adorably chubby pigtailed toddler of about three and a half years old. I had a new toy, and I wanted to play with it right that minute. More to the point, I wanted to play it for my father, but he was on a telephone call in the kitchen. He was busy and couldn’t listen, so he shushed me and waved me off. I took my red-wheeled, rainbow-colored xylophone into the living room, sat on the floor, and used the little yellow mallet to play it there. But grandma—who visited us from the city most weekends—told me I was still being too loud, and to wait until dad was off the phone. Naturally, being three, I pouted, and at some point I crawled under the dining room table.
That was my first mistake. The dining room table was near the back windows, and the back door which led out to the patio. The table was completely covered by a floor length green tablecloth. It was late spring, and it got stuffy under the table, in my cozy hiding spot. Guess what? I made my second mistake. I fell asleep.
Fast forward a few hours. My dad is off the phone. The adults realized they haven’t seen me for a while. Someone was probably sent upstairs to check my room, my brother’s room, and the bathroom. Someone else would double-check the attic, although that’s more a small place for storage than a place we kids ever hung out in. I’m also not in the backyard or front yard or garage, and the sun is going down. My dad, brother, and possibly some of the older kids who live next door go out into our suburban neighborhood to drive or bike around and call for me, in hopes that I haven’t wandered off too far.
At some point, they all come back, empty handed. They are loud. They are rightfully worried. There is talk of calling the police. “We can’t find her,” my aunt says.
I wake up, knowing none of this. I crawl out from under the table, xylophone clutched in my tiny hands. I have no idea why everyone looks so worried.
My dad is on the phone again. “We can’t find Laura,” he’s telling someone. “Have you seen her today?”
“Here I am!” I said loudly, pleased at knowing the answer.
Everyone turned and looked at me. The relief in the room was palpable. My father, who was a very kind man, was happy to know I was safe, but frustrated at how much fuss I had caused. He explained how worried everyone had been over my little “stunt,” and after I apologized, he gave me a hug and sent me up to my room with a relatively gentle spank on my bottom.
I took my xylophone with me. But I don’t think I ever hid under the dining room table again.
If you didn’t have that pleasure, I can assure you, you didn’t miss much.
Even so, only one instrument in all my fifty-plus years ever got me into trouble, and made not only myself but my entire family unhappy. You, dear reader, would be hard pressed to guess what item had the dubious honor of causing such a ruckus, so I’ll just tell you.
It was the xylophone.
To be more specific, it was the Fisher Price Pull-A-Tune xylophone circa 1971. It was brand new, and I was only slightly used at the time, being an adorably chubby pigtailed toddler of about three and a half years old. I had a new toy, and I wanted to play with it right that minute. More to the point, I wanted to play it for my father, but he was on a telephone call in the kitchen. He was busy and couldn’t listen, so he shushed me and waved me off. I took my red-wheeled, rainbow-colored xylophone into the living room, sat on the floor, and used the little yellow mallet to play it there. But grandma—who visited us from the city most weekends—told me I was still being too loud, and to wait until dad was off the phone. Naturally, being three, I pouted, and at some point I crawled under the dining room table.
That was my first mistake. The dining room table was near the back windows, and the back door which led out to the patio. The table was completely covered by a floor length green tablecloth. It was late spring, and it got stuffy under the table, in my cozy hiding spot. Guess what? I made my second mistake. I fell asleep.
Fast forward a few hours. My dad is off the phone. The adults realized they haven’t seen me for a while. Someone was probably sent upstairs to check my room, my brother’s room, and the bathroom. Someone else would double-check the attic, although that’s more a small place for storage than a place we kids ever hung out in. I’m also not in the backyard or front yard or garage, and the sun is going down. My dad, brother, and possibly some of the older kids who live next door go out into our suburban neighborhood to drive or bike around and call for me, in hopes that I haven’t wandered off too far.
At some point, they all come back, empty handed. They are loud. They are rightfully worried. There is talk of calling the police. “We can’t find her,” my aunt says.
I wake up, knowing none of this. I crawl out from under the table, xylophone clutched in my tiny hands. I have no idea why everyone looks so worried.
My dad is on the phone again. “We can’t find Laura,” he’s telling someone. “Have you seen her today?”
“Here I am!” I said loudly, pleased at knowing the answer.
Everyone turned and looked at me. The relief in the room was palpable. My father, who was a very kind man, was happy to know I was safe, but frustrated at how much fuss I had caused. He explained how worried everyone had been over my little “stunt,” and after I apologized, he gave me a hug and sent me up to my room with a relatively gentle spank on my bottom.
I took my xylophone with me. But I don’t think I ever hid under the dining room table again.
