The Concert

The Flute Concert

I am on the back side of fifty, heading for sixty. I started the Martial arts weapon
Nunchuku, known mostly by the name of Nunchucks, about a year ago.
It is hard to start things that require a sharp mind and body when you are older.
You look on at athletic young people picking up the moves fast, and executing them in lightning fashion. At least that is the case with me. It would be easy for me to say, "Why bother." After I have dropped the damn things for the hundredth time, or hit my self once again on some protruding part of my aging frame. But my belief system is to do something for the pure joy of it and not to worry if you are the best.
Yes, we a love to be recognized, even if just for our efforts, that requires though that you indeed make the effort. You must get out of your box and risk.

A year ago or so, a  friend in the Children's mental health profession asked if
I would put on a Taekwondo demonstration with my students at a state event.
She also had heard me play the Native American flute and asked if I might play something. Now my music knowledge could probably fit in a thimble. Another thing I attempt but fall pitifully short on any real ability. But the cause was worthy, so I accepted the invitation to perform. I could fake my way through a tune.

The time drew near for the event when I received the events flyer through my e- mail. The poster listed the various activities. As I was reading I came to a section,
And read the following announcement:

"Flute Concert By Therese Guy."

What? Flute concert! I can maybe squeak out two tunes on my flute. Panic immediately set in. I thought about calling my friend up and saying I had pneumonia. I calmed down a bit and came up with a plan.

I have a collection of different kinds of flutes from all over the world. This happened quite by accident. Once someone sees the joy you have over some possession, people start giving you those for gifts. You know, like someone who collects salt and pepper shakers. So it has been with me, friends and students bring me flutes back from their travels. Being thus endowed I have become determined to figure out how to play one song on each instrument. I have pretty much accomplished that. One song per instrument. So I decided I would bring around ten of my favorite flutes and play a song on each. Thus making my ability to look far more then it was.

This was so out of my comfort zone!

The day came, and I did manage to play a song per instrument. Impressing a few
wide eyed kids. But I could not deceive, as I received the praise from the audience
I confessed my ruse. To my surprise the applause increased. They realized the courage it took to go out of my box and find a way to entertain, despite my limitations. This is the life lesson I wish to share. You should always strive to write that book, learn that language, run that race, it truly is in the journey not the destination. Most of all, have fun.

 

I'll Make A Man Out Of You

 Make A Man Out Of You ( first day of boot camp )

In the Disney movie, "Mulan" there is a song while troops are in training.
The lyrics go like this, "I'll make a man out of you." The irony is Mulan is a woman.
I can't help but be transported back to 1977 and my experience as the gender minority entering the Army.

First you should understand why I joined. Most people thought it was because I was an avid tomboy and wanted to prove myself. This could not be further from the truth. It was fear, pure unadulterated fear. I had already applied and been accepted at a prestigious catholic college in  Minnesota. True, money was a factor, but the biggest fear was I had no idea what I wanted to do with the rest of my life. I figured going to boot camp and service training would give me time to think. Another big faux pax, in boot camp you barely had time to pee, let alone think!

Often I regale people with tales from my Army days. Others often see these stories as wonderful adventure filled experiences. I guess they get somewhat embellished in the telling. The real truth is that it was a traumatic episode in a previously mundane Midwesterners life.

Somehow I found myself with hand in the air, swearing allegiance  and obedience to
The United Staes Army. I was the only girl in the local group taking the oath that day. We were told to pack only one other set of clothes besides those on our backs and meet at Omaha's Eppley Airfield.

They said, " Your Uncle Sam will provide for your clothing needs now. "

When we met at the airport,  our plane had some maintenance issues, and the next flight the Airlines could book us on would be the following day. Instead of letting us go home for one more night, the recruiter got us rooms at a nearby hotel. They must of figured we might be a flight risk.

The boys who had shorts decided to go down to the hotel pool. I had only the jeans and T-shirt I was wearing and a skirt and blouse in my suitcase. The recruiter came to my door at dinner time and asked me,

"Where are the boys?"

"Down in the pool."

"Please go and get them and tell them to meet me in the dinning room. I have the voucher to pay for your meals."

I did as he requested and headed down to the pool area. The other recruits were letting loose and cannon balling into the pool. I shouted at them what the recruiter said. One of the guys paddled to the edge and held out his hand and asked for help up. I should have known better, I have three older brothers! I offered a hand, and quick as a wink---found myself flying through the air and into the pool. Having only one other set of clothes and no access to a dryer, that is how I ended up arriving to basic training in a dress.

The next day started smooth. There were no plane troubles and we arrived in South Carolina without incident. My first impression was as you would expect on a hot day in July. Sweat was running down my back and we had not even arrived at Fort Jackson yet. A big green bus awaited us and we piled in. I felt somewhat like I imagined a cow did being herded onto a cattle truck going to slaughter.

We arrived at our destination. A large cement Tarmac like you would see at an airport. Several men in stiff starched uniforms and Smokey the Bear hats eagerly greeted us. Their faces were scrunched up, and I swear they foamed at the mouth like rabid dogs, as they screamed instructions at us. My legs were shaking so bad I almost tripped stepping out of the bus. I scuttled into a haphazard line next to a couple of other recruits.

It did not take long for one of Drill Instructors to zero in on me. I cannot recall what he first said to me because I was disconcerted by the edge of his hat tapping on my forehead. I just recalled that my brother who was a Marine (this I found out was an important factor) told me to say, Sir, Yes Sir, to everything said to me. So that is what I did!

"Sir, Yes Sir!" I shouted. It became clear that is not the Army way.

"Sir, Sir I work for a living! Get down and give me twenty maggot."

I got down---skirt and all, petrified the others would be looking up my skirt and somehow managed to get twenty push-ups accomplished. As I struggled to my feet I decided an apology was warranted. ( I had no knowledge yet of proper order of rank )

"Sorry Corporal."

"Corporal, Corporal, it's Sergeant trainee! Now get down and give me twenty more!"

Now that Tarmac was about a hundred and twenty degrees and I was still shaking from the first twenty and I was in a dress. Somehow I thought a shaking, tearful, young woman in a dress would elicit some sympathy and whined.

" Bbbut my skirt."

" No special treatment here maggot, this is Soldier training. Now add twenty to that!"

Down I went. I did not care anymore about my skirt, my hands burning on the hot pavement, and my own ragged breath gave me no time to be embarrassed. My only thought was, "I wanna go home." I had only been in basic training two minutes and already blew it three times. This did not bode well.