The Oboe.

The other night my six year-old daughter and I attended a concert at Highline Community College. My ten year-old son was performing with the Parkside Elementary orchestra as they opened for a Des Moines Arts Commission Music Series show. He plays viola. In the past few months, I have come to understand that the learning curve for instrument mastery is decidedly not steep. The slight twitch my dog, Diego, is now afflicted with, no doubt the result of the unnatural sounds piercing my son’s bedroom door, will testify to this. While the process is slow and sometimes painful, there IS progress and as the group came together and played their pieces, it was actual music and it was great. Their focused and serious faces read their music as they played powerful works. Occasionally, a shrill missed note would find its way to my spinal cord, followed by an eye-raising wince from the assailant, but overall they sounded pretty good and I was proud.


As proud as I was of my son, my daughter, on the other hand, on several occasions, narrowly avoided a very public strangulation. “Just sit still, PLEASE!” I loud-whispered and repeated as a mantra throughout the concert. Now, I had no illusions that bringing a six year-old to a classical music show would be entirely trouble-free, but as the bouncing, talking, swinging, fiddling, fidgeting and kicking ramped up, I was considering very bad things. Fortunately, as it sometimes will, fate intervened. As my son’s performance wrapped up, the headline group, The Sirens, came out and began to play. They are a trio who play piano, flute and oboe. I don’t ever recall hearing an oboe before, certainly not like this. This woman played notes that I did not know existed. They touched me and gratefully must have touched my daughter as well. For three wonderful minutes, she sat on my lap and we listened to a song that we could feel. There is an emotion in the oboe that surprised me. The music swept over us and it was beautiful. I looked around the room and saw my son sitting next to his buddy several rows away from us, because if there is anything un-cooler for a fifth-grader than a classical music concert, it is sitting with your dad and little sister at a classical music concert. I understood and was not hurt, too much. I enjoyed the true magic of the moment and was genuinely moved. This was until my daughter woke up with a simultaneous flailing back head-butt to my face and swinging heel crotch-kick. The wonderful moment was over in an instant. It was just too good to last. As a stifled a yelp, I collected our things and knew it was time to go. “Go get your brother.” I said as I made my way to the door and stepped out into the cool Des Moines rain.

I tipped my head to the sky and smiled and knew that the brief, pure moment was worth all of the hassle, struggle and even the crotch kick. The beauty of a single moment is worth all of it, every time