The Music Man

Psst! Come in a little closer… this is something I don’t want the world to hear.  Promise you won’t say anything.  Swear you won’t make fun.  The last piece of the puzzle, the one that establishes that yes, I am old, out of date and not cool was recently confirmed to me.  I am so well on the way to becoming my parents, it scares me.

My son, who is now minutes away from turning 11, has been slowly building his taste for music.  I have always encouraged harmony and song in my child’s life.  Matter of fact, I even played Bach and Beethoven to him in his formidable years as he napped and hoped subliminally it was making a difference.  I dutifully played him childrens’ tunes and happily broke out, not at the most appropriate times, that zippity doo da’ed and zippity day’ed and my, oh my, we were going to have a wonderful day… because we had plenty of sunshine coming our way!

As he got older and grew from “Barney” tunes (which I always thought had a snappy, happy little beat) to more sophisticated melodies, his father and I introduced and shared with him the songs we grew up with and loved.  Ranging from rock and roll to Frank, jazz, Cher, ABBA, The Bee Gees and Pachabel Canon, we deluged, dazzled and delighted him with our vast repertoire of musical enchantments.  One would think that this would be enough to satisfy anyone’s soul.

But no, he has this independent streak and wants to listen to the new fangled stuff that “they” call “music”.  This was the beginning of my end.  As he insisted on putting his CD’s (see, I am hip – I have evolved from calling them records or albums) into my car and switching between favorite tracks at the speed of light, I tried to lend an empathetic, interested ear.  And I think I could have done really well if I could have actually understood more than half of the words.  The words I did get were not always in the sequence my mature senses could absorb.  And why, did these “singers” insist on shouting the words? The final proof that I have turned into my parents was when my statement of “they call this noise music?” emerged.  This was a revelation of sorts and the truth of my being was revealed.

It was too late to recover and, feeling like a deer in headlights, I had to accept my fate.  Since it seems beyond my capacity to internalize these new groups whose names resemble types of candy, I must boldly step where I never thought I would go… maturity.  When I hear the same words that my parents said to me, I have a choice.  I can either flatly rebuke the intrusion or embrace and laugh at the irony that the things that I remember are the ones that annoyed me the most growing up.  And the only hope I have for retribution is that some day my child will have children of his own and he will recall something I said or did and use it with his kids.  We may all dance to a different beat of the drummer, but hopefully we can enjoy the journey in finding the music that fits us best.

Cynthia A. McClelland, curious observer of the obvious with interpretations of the oddities of daily life.  Mother, wife and lover of the furry, resides in the north Lake Tahoe area.          

Cynthia A. McClelland © 2003-