I had been away from home all day. As I was walking into my backyard at 5 pm at saw the kids playing on their new playground structure, from Marcia Bates. I yelled over, “I am just going inside to take a long drink of water and I will be out to watch you play.”
“That’s a shame for we are going inside. We just heard thunder,” said Michael.
I hadn’t heard anything but now paying attention I could feel the first of a light rain falling. By the time I had my drink of water and was outside they were indeed headed back into their house. I followed them for a little bit of inside play.
Betty had decided to play, playing drums.
She had on a pair of pink plastic high heels, complete with a fuchsia rosette adoring the instep of her foot, and that foot was now tapping as though she were playing the cymbals.
That plastic heel clicking on the floor might have been irritating, if I had't known we were playing drums.
She had tin containers set up on the paint table and was tapping the containers with sticks, calling out, “Grandmother, you be the singer of the band.”
I took on the job using any songs I could think of. I find myself carrying a diminishing number of titles lately and after about 10 minutes I couldn't think of another song they might like.
Alice joined us with her own make-believe set of instruments and soon Michael had some noise makers as well, one of which was a set of spoons which his mother told him he could tap but not bang on the table.
It was hard for him to know the difference.
Spoons.
That is when the idea came to my head.
Playing spoons.
All four of us came back over to my house to watch a you tube video on how to “play spoons”, musically, not the game of spoons.
Michael got really good, really fast. He could hold the two spoons in his right hand and slide them washboard-like down the fingers of his left hand.
When the children tired of practising playing spoons with the video, we went back to their house and as I left my house again, I picked up a copy of an old folk tune book. The front and back pages are missing and there is no sign of a title or an index anywhere. Just pages 3 to 80 are left. At the bottom of all of the pages is the copyright sign with the words Copyright 1965 Yorktown Music Press, Inc.
The pages are only held together by a few threads. But I know most of the songs in this book, so I grabbed it to cue me into the next number I would sing.
Betty would adjust her rhythm to my voice, whatever song I choose.
Occasionally I would give the kids a small introduction to the next song I would sing, just as though I were in a night club. I tried to keep the intro’s age appropriate, for many of the songs have come out of the the times of the underground railroad or the slave trade, times they know little of, and understand even less of.
At one point Michael stopped me and said he had to go to the bathroom for a minute, so could I just stop singing until he got back.
Oh boy.
Singing with a band.
Every grandmother’s dream job.
Arta
“That’s a shame for we are going inside. We just heard thunder,” said Michael.
I hadn’t heard anything but now paying attention I could feel the first of a light rain falling. By the time I had my drink of water and was outside they were indeed headed back into their house. I followed them for a little bit of inside play.
 |
| ... Betty, the drummer ... |
She had on a pair of pink plastic high heels, complete with a fuchsia rosette adoring the instep of her foot, and that foot was now tapping as though she were playing the cymbals.
That plastic heel clicking on the floor might have been irritating, if I had't known we were playing drums.
She had tin containers set up on the paint table and was tapping the containers with sticks, calling out, “Grandmother, you be the singer of the band.”
I took on the job using any songs I could think of. I find myself carrying a diminishing number of titles lately and after about 10 minutes I couldn't think of another song they might like.
Alice joined us with her own make-believe set of instruments and soon Michael had some noise makers as well, one of which was a set of spoons which his mother told him he could tap but not bang on the table.
It was hard for him to know the difference.
Spoons.
That is when the idea came to my head.
Playing spoons.
All four of us came back over to my house to watch a you tube video on how to “play spoons”, musically, not the game of spoons.
Michael got really good, really fast. He could hold the two spoons in his right hand and slide them washboard-like down the fingers of his left hand.
When the children tired of practising playing spoons with the video, we went back to their house and as I left my house again, I picked up a copy of an old folk tune book. The front and back pages are missing and there is no sign of a title or an index anywhere. Just pages 3 to 80 are left. At the bottom of all of the pages is the copyright sign with the words Copyright 1965 Yorktown Music Press, Inc.
The pages are only held together by a few threads. But I know most of the songs in this book, so I grabbed it to cue me into the next number I would sing.
Betty would adjust her rhythm to my voice, whatever song I choose.
Occasionally I would give the kids a small introduction to the next song I would sing, just as though I were in a night club. I tried to keep the intro’s age appropriate, for many of the songs have come out of the the times of the underground railroad or the slave trade, times they know little of, and understand even less of.
At one point Michael stopped me and said he had to go to the bathroom for a minute, so could I just stop singing until he got back.
Oh boy.
Singing with a band.
Every grandmother’s dream job.
Arta
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