CLIMATE CHANGE

Like many people, after the really cold weather we had this past winter, I’m wondering what happened to Global Warming. But I’ll leave that debate to the politicians, scientists, and die-hard surfers. For me, the more important question is; what am I supposed to wear?

It’s cold one day and hot the next, which plays havoc with my seasonal clothing changeover. Wearing mukluk boots with a halter top and shorts just doesn’t cut it. So I’ve made some bold decisions. Wearing pants over nylon stockings was one of them. Wearing white before Memorial Day was another.

Thankfully, it’s spring now. Or rather, it’s the short period of time between truly cold temperatures and when the South slides heavily into the summer heat. I wouldn’t call it “Spring” exactly, because you’re supposed to be able to open your windows and get some fresh air. You open the windows here and you get dusted with more pollen than a honey-bee.

Granted, this is an unusual year for tree pollen. I read it was heavy because of the unusually cold winter. But I shouldn’t have to use a snow shovel to clear a path to my pollen-laden car. And if I have to wash my car one more time after two weeks of daily washings, I think I’m gonna cry.

And what’s up with flying sap? I know that sap in trees rises in the spring. That’s how you get Vermont maple syrup. But I don’t understand why sap drips from the trees, especially pine, onto my car. I mean, don’t the trees need that stuff to live? I thought sap is to a tree like blood is to a human. So why would they just fling it onto my windshield?

Even the Girl Scouts had a tough time. They were out in force last weekend washing cars. I guess the cookie business isn’t what it used to be. I thought the Den Mothers, or whatever their title is, were going to show some leg if more cars didn’t stop.

So I pulled over and let them at my car. The girls swarmed over it, scrapping and scrubbing vigorously. But the sap just wouldn’t come off. It reminded me of the indestructible stuff that prehistoric insects are found fossilized in.

My car looked like it had a bad case of hives. And I wasn’t happy about it or the cleaning. So I whined and got five dollars off the price of the wash. I also got a free box of Thin Mints. But they were stale.

POTATO CHIPS 4

Mr. Stock boy turns away from the store manager. He finishes regurgitating on Miss Sharon’s shoes. The sickening smell of stomach acid and mashed potatoes fills the air.

The crowd quickly disperses. Once again it’s just me, the store manager, security-guard Sharon and the ashen-faced stock boy.

The store manager’s thick chest is heaving with disgust and rage. He points a shaky finger at me as he addresses Miss Sharon.

“Officer, arrest this woman immediately!”

Miss Sharon is busy wiping potato-chip goo from her shoes. “Sorry, but no way, Jose. I’m leaving. I was going to quit this crummy job anyway next week when I resume medical school.

“Besides, this lady said she’d pay for the food items she used. So really, there’s no basis for me to do anything.”

Miss Sharon turns to leave, but the store manager gets in her face.

“No Basis? No basis, you say? Are you nuts, woman? Look around you. My shelves are disheveled. I’m dripping with vomit. Your shoes are unsalvageable. My stock-boy is more useless than ever. I think some kind of retribution is in order. Oh yes, indeed it is.”

The store manager has a wild look in his eyes. His face has developed a nervous tick. Miss Sharon hesitates, cowering under his glare.

“What do you suggest?” she asks, feebly. Mr. Stock boy pipes up.

“I say we put her in the meat freezer and let her cool down for a while.” He tries to laugh but it comes out as an asthmatic wheeze.

“No, that’s too good for her,” says the store manager.

“What happened to the ‘customer’s always right’?” I blurt. “You guys should be trying to make me happy. Wait until the corporate office hears about this. By the time your CEO gets through with you, you’ll be eating your underwear for dinner and asking for more.”

“She has a point, Sir,” wheezes the stock boy. The store manager looks at Miss Sharon for confirmation. But she shrugs unhelpfully. He shifts his unblinking gaze to me, regarding me like a rattlesnake regards a mouse.

“I’m unemployed. I could use a job,” I peep. The store manager’s eyes blaze.

“Excellent idea!” He turns to the stock boy. “Butch, please escort this young lady to the back room and give her a mop and bucket. I want this mess cleaned up, pronto!”

“I was thinking more along the lines of deli or cake-baker person,” I say, trying to think of a way out. “I can dust furniture, but the finer points of water and soap application escape me.”

“Oh, you’ll learn quickly enough.” The store manager has a grin on his face I don’t like.

I clean myself up and don a white deli-counter coat with “Marv” stitched on the pocket. I wheel the bucket and mop to the potato-chip aisle. The sudsy water in the bucket is black and smelly. It probably needs to be changed. But, I don’t care.

It takes me hours to wash down the splattered floor and clean the shelves, all under the watchful eye of Butch. When I’m finally done, I’m exhausted. Butch shuffles off to get the store manager. I’m looking forward to getting paid and exiting this House of Pain.

The store manager walks up and down the aisle. He stoops. “You left a spot,” he says. I look at where he’s pointing, but see nothing.

“Sorry, but I’m not paying for shoddy work. You’re fired.” His grin is broad and bright.

I’ve been had. I tear off my deli-counter coat.

As I stride toward the exit, I yell, “I’ll get you and your mutant chips, too!”

POTATO CHIPS 3

As I’m waiting to be cuffed by the security guard and hauled off, a funny thing happens. My eyes tear up. I start to cry.

At first, I just sniffle a little. My nose runs, but I don’t dare make any sudden movements with my hands. Miss Sharon, the security guard, would brain me for sure.

So I just let it drip, which grosses me out. However, it’s interesting to see how far the mucus stretches from my nose until finally dropping.

I’m filled with shame and self-loathing. What kind of role model am I for my kids? What mother eats a potato chip off the floor? What kind of person worries about their nose running when there’s a conspiracy afoot to stock the grocery stores with mutant snacks?

Something inside me breaks. I cry in big, whooping sobs until I can’t breathe. My eyes and nose get puffy and red. When I can’t cry anymore, I begin a high-pitched wail like a mourner at a pet funeral.

“I’m sorry!” I manage to blurt out. I blubber on.

“I’m so very, very sorry! I shouldn’t have eaten that potato chip. I should’ve never dunked my face in pimento cheese. I’m a disgrace to sensible shoppers everywhere! Please don’t take me to the ‘big house’.”

By this time, there’s a crowd of shoppers around us. They stand off to one side in a protective semi-circle of shopping carts. There are whisperings, mutterings, and clucking tongues. It reminds me of the kind of mob that used to turn out for public hangings and executions.

The store manager doesn’t seem to like all the attention. He waves at the crowd and plasters a forced smile on his chubby face.

“No need to interrupt your shopping, folks. Just a little disturbance we have to resolve. Just another example of how we strive to provide you with the very best in customer service and attention.”

No one moves. The chatter grows louder. I continue to whimper. The store manager is growing nervous. Big, wet rings of sweat appear on his shirt under the armpits. He clears his throat.

“Tell you what, the first twenty customers that hurry over to the frozen-foods aisle will receive five dollars worth of coupons good toward any purchase of our store-brand vegetables.

“Anyone who leaves within the next three minutes will receive an additional bonus; our store-brand cheese snacks normally two for four dollars, now absolutely free! Limit one cheese snack per customer. This offer cannot be combined with any other offer, coupon or discount.”

A couple of shoppers start to drift off. That’s when my befuddled brain springs into action.

“Don’t do it!” I yell, flinging snot and strands of pimento cheese at the crowd.

“Their store brands use synthesized, genetically altered products. Do you want your kids to eat something mutated and then glow in the dark for the next 50 years? I know I don’t.”

The elderly stock-boy stops wheezing, declaring, “You’re a lying son-of-a-gun who’d sooner bugger your mother than tell the truth!”

“Not telling the truth? It’s you guys who aren’t telling the truth! I challenge any of you to eat a store-brand potato chip and tell me it tastes like anything other than wallpaper paste!”

I’m trembling with righteous anger. Cries of, “Yeah, do what the potato-chip gals says!” rise like a chorus from the crowd.

Mr. Stock boy grabs a bag of potato chips and rips it open. He thrusts his hand inside, emerging with a fistful of chips. He stuffs these into his mouth, chewing heartily for several minutes. Then, he stops. He walks over to the store manager and promptly vomits on him.

POTATO CHIPS 2

I put down the pimento-cheese container. Self-consciously, I wipe my face. I feel clumps of cheesy spread dripping down my chin.

“Officer, I’m so glad you’re here! I want to make a citizen’s arrest. This store tried to poison me. I think their crummy potato chip gave me mad-cow disease.”

I shove my half-eaten chip at the security guard and the stock boy. The latter steps back like I threatened him with a knife. The stock “boy” is actually an older gentleman, balding and stooped. It’s nice to see they’re employing the elderly at something useful like stacking cans.

“I have to get my manager. Minimum wage ain’t enough to deal with this.” Mr. Stock-boy shuffles off, mumbling.

I turn my attention to the security guard. At first I thought she was a Girl Scout, but the blue uniform gave it away. She’s young and scrawny – maybe 90 pounds soaking wet.

She hooks her thumbs in her belt, trying to look tough. I bet she’s a rent-a-cop with an itchy trigger-finger and an attitude to match. She’s just waiting for me to make a wrong move so she can swat me with her night-stick.

I look at her name tag; it says “Sharon.” If I were a security guard I’d pick a meaner name; something that would strike fear in the hearts of hooligans everywhere.

How about “Layla”, as in the Wrestle-mania babe? Of course, Miss Sharon has a ways to go before even looking remotely like Layla. But it’s nothing that a personal trainer and plastic surgery couldn’t fix.

Sharon scowls as if sensing my internal dialog. Her security guard hat is too big for her. It slips down over her eyes. She fixes it hastily. I suddenly notice she has a pair of hand-cuffs on her. I wonder if I’ll be arrested. Can security guards do that?

“Officer, this isn’t what it seems. I’m not trying to cause a domestic disturbance.” I shake my head sadly, flinging leftover pimento cheese like a wet dog.

“I didn’t open this bag of potato chips. It was already open. Lying on the floor. I merely took advantage of the opportunity to conduct a taste test. I observed the 5-second rule before eating one of the chips. But I didn’t finish it. You can have the rest.”

I offer the chip once again. But Sharon’s expression doesn’t change. She makes no attempt to take the chip, merely folding her arms. I’m a woman myself, so I know that means “no thanks” — in her case, “no thanks, a-hole.”

“So where was I? Oh, yeah. In the course of consuming the aforementioned chip, I found it unfit for consumption. I suspect its potato genes have been tampered with. The taste says it all.

“Lacking the ability to properly dispose of this mutant potato chip, I was forced to resort to cheese spread. I figured it was better I eat pimento cheese to cover the chip’s taste rather than spit it out.

“And by the way, I plan to purchase the bag of chips and the pimento-cheese spread.”

Just then a large man, whom I presume is the store manager, hustles up. I see the stock boy running behind him, wheezing.

“What’s going on here?” His piggy little eyes bulge as he takes in the scene. “Give me that pimento cheese!”

He lunges for my spread. But I’m too fast for him. I feint to the right, neatly tossing the container into my shopping cart. Unfortunately, the top is still open. Pimento cheese splatters on me, the manager and security guard.

I hold out my hands, waiting for the cuffs.

POTATO CHIPS

The grocery store was really crazy this past weekend. I suppose it was because of the Super Bowl game.

I hardly notice events like this. I’m not a big sports fan. I don’t understand the game of football and don’t care. However, I do like the way the men look in their tight uniforms. I especially like when they bend over in a huddle, with a white flag waving off their butts. Oh, baby.

After the game, the grocery stores run specials on the popular items. You can pick up snack food, like pickled pig’s feet, real cheap.

It’s a good time to stock up on staples. For me, that’s potato chips. I already have enough chicken broth to see me through the coming year.

I see there’s a special on the store-brand chips — a “buy two, get one free” deal. But apparently, that’s not sufficient enticement. The store shelves are packed solid with the “special” chips. The shelves on either side are completely empty.

I almost step on a bag of store-brand chips. The bag is partially open, disgorging a few stray chips. There are some ants crawling around. I can’t help noticing they completely ignore the spilled chips. In fact, they go out of their way to avoid them.

I retrieve a chip from the bag and examine it. It looks like a regular potato chip to me. It’s yellowish in color, darkening around the edges. A few salt crystals sparkle on its rough, wavy surface.

It looks manufactured, industrial. Certainly, this chip has never seen a rustic cooper-kettle on Cape Cod. The bag says the chips were cooked in Canola oil, which isn’t too bad.

But that doesn’t make the chip low-fat or good for you. There are chips made out of other vegetables with more fiber and vitamins. However, I’d still rather eat a fattening potato chip than munch on a healthy asparagus one.

I lift the potato chip to my lips. I extend my tongue gingerly like I’m afraid it might bite me. But I can’t get much of a taste. So I nibble on it. Then I take an actual bite. I’m startled by the loud crackling sound.

There’s a stock boy working on my aisle. He pauses and looks up. I can’t tell if he’s looking at me because of the glare from his glasses. He’s at a distance though. I doubt he can see the individual chip at my lips. So I just smile and wave.

He waves back half-heartedly and resumes his work.

I chew the potato-chip morsel. And boy, is it nasty. The taste is somewhere between stale crackers and salted cardboard.

I want to spit the chip out, but can’t. The paste forming in my mouth is as thick as wall spackle.

Frantically, I rummage through my shopping cart for tissue or paper toweling, anything to spit the chip into. I have nothing. I contemplate a mad dash down the paper-goods aisle. That’s when I see salvation — pimento-cheese spread. It’s at the bottom of my cart.

Ordinarily, I wouldn’t dream of marrying a potato chip with anything other than French-onion dip. But, I’m desperate.

I rip the top off the container and tear free the plastic seal. Gratefully, I bury my tongue in cheesy goodness. I think I’m making yummy noises, but I can’t be sure.

I don’t know how much time goes by with my face stuck in the cheese. But when I next look up, the stock boy is standing in front of me. And a store security guard. Neither look amused.

DRIVING FIVE

After Granny and the white Camry disappear into the distance, I breathe a sigh of relief.

No one else challenges my left-lane supremacy. With nothing to occupy me, I’m free to let my mind wander. I focus on billboards; there are a lot of them. In other parts of the country they’re largely banned.

I see one for a local muscatel winery and wonder aloud how they have the “most popular wine in North Carolina.” Their wines are very sweet. I can’t stomach anything that syrupy unless it’s a topping for ice cream.

This winery also boasts of hauling wines to distributors in a converted hog trailer. I don’t know about you, but associating wine with hogs holds little appeal.

Then there’s a billboard for plastic surgery. It displays a nubile, gorgeous young female. She’s in a lounging position, wearing a skimpy top barely covering the buxom curves beneath. The ad says something to the effect of “this could be you.” Well, yeah — $100,000 later, maybe.

I find the premise of the ad ridiculous. It’s obvious to me the woman in the ad was born that way, not made that way. She has God and perhaps Jenny Craig® to thank for her figure — not a surgeon. And even the best surgeon can’t turn a 60 year-old into a 20 year-old; at least not yet.

They need to come up with a better story if they really want to attract clients. How about a before-and-after display? I might be persuaded by a flat-chested, no-butt woman who’s transformed into a curvaceous honey.

One observes these kind of ads all the time in print media, especially in adult materials. I suspect it’s because the photos can be more readily altered. In many cases, it takes artistry to transform an “after” picture into one resembling the “before” one.

The pictures in these ads are purposely small. Significant “enhancement” can’t be easily determined. That might be harder to get away with on a huge billboard.

A billboard looms for real estate. It’s one of those that say, “If you lived here, you’d be home already.” Well, “here” is a cow pasture. It’s hard picturing an “exclusive golf and swimming community” in the backwoods of Duplin county.

A smaller insert shows a handsome, smiling couple in their mid-50’s. She’s leaning against him with his arms around her. She looks very happy. Did she “do it” with the golf pro just before this shot? Is she divorcing her husband and pleased she gets their home in the “exclusive community?” Only her lawyer knows for sure.

Speaking of lawyers, there’s a billboard for one. The lawyer in the ad is grinning like a wolf. He’s lean and his eyes look sharp, hungry. The caption says he’ll get the IRS off your back. You’ll no longer owe back taxes or fines. He’ll free your income and child support from “levies.”

Let me see if I understand this correctly. If I hire this guy, I can get away with paying no taxes? Sounds like a neat trick. I guess good citizens like me who pay their fair share of taxes every year are suckers.

At the very least, we’re subsidizing those who don’t pay. Maybe that’s why my tax return gets scrutinized every year. The IRS has to make up the shortfall somehow.

If only I had the time and the inclination, I’d hoist a ladder up to that billboard. I’d get myself a gallon of black paint and splash it across Mr. Huckster Lawyer and his flashy grin. Yeah, that would feel real good.

And if I had any paint left over, I’d go hunting for Granny in the white Camry.

DRIVING FOUR

The tow truck passes me doing about 80. I hope he doesn’t have an accident on the way to an accident. Or, it could be his lunch hour and he’s rushing home for a quick one with the missus.

I continue to drive down I-40. With my driver side-mirror gone, I stay in the left-hand passing lane as much as possible. I’m doing five miles over the speed limit, which is pretty fast. But it’s not fast enough for some people.

Every time I set the cruise control, there’s a car or truck right behind me, urging me to go faster. I usually move over and let them pass.

But now, there’s a white Camry on my bumper flashing its lights and speeding up. I can’t move over. There’s a truck in the other lane.

The guy behind me really ticks me off. So I deliberately slow down . Yeah, let him stew in impotent fury.

I know his kind. He’s the sort who doesn’t eat breakfast or didn’t get laid the night before. He has a low-paying job he hates, located three hours away.

He owns a house he can’t afford and can’t sell. He’s been married several times and has several kids. And he owes multiple child support and alimony payments.

All that pent-up frustration has spilled over into his driving. I just happen to be in the way.

I passed the truck, so I guess I could forgive his road-rage and just move over. I’ll think about it.

I continue driving slowly. Since the right lane is clear, I expect my pursuer to just change lanes and speed past me. But, he doesn’t.

He stays close. I glance in my rear-view mirror, but can’t see the driver’s face or features very well. I do get the impression of white hair, though. And I definitely recognize the hand gesture he just flipped me.

That’s when I get mad. It must be some high mucky-muck executive. He’s determined to make me change lanes — to acknowledge my inferiority and acquiesce to his inflated male ego. Where he has to go and what he has to do are obviously so very important. Everything and everyone else are expendable.

He makes five times the salary of one his employees. He gets manicures once a week and pedicures once a month. He goes on expensive, company-paid vacations. I bet he owns enough jewelry, fine paintings and art antiquities to open his own museum.

My resentment bubbles up until I think I’ll explode. It’s a good thing I don’t have a missile-launcher in my car or his car would be toast.

With effort, I get myself under control. Where is my compassion? Did it dive off the bridge along with my side mirror? Why am I making so many assumptions?

I don’t know anything for certain about the guy behind me. He could be a doctor in a hurry to save a dying patient. He could be an airline pilot rushing to his flight so his passengers don’t have to wait another five hours. He could be someone dangerous — in which case, I’m putting my life at risk with my infantile defiance.

So, even though he’s not doing the right thing, I do. I pull over and let him pass.

That’s when I see that the driver isn’t a “guy.” It’s a gal, and an elderly one at that — someone’s granny bearing gifts and stale cookies.

As she passes me she grins, her red lipstick askew on skinny lips.

She flips me the finger once more and speeds away.

DRIVING THREE

My driver side-view mirror, having broken free and now floating down the Cape Fear River, is long gone. I’m not sure what to do.

I’m panicky, expecting to be pulled over at any moment by the police. Not having a side-mirror must be some type of safety infraction, probably punishable by death.

I consider using my makeup-compact mirror as a replacement. However, I can foresee problems with that. I doubt masking tape (all I have) is strong enough to hold it down. And whatever will I use to powder my nose? Besides, a 10x magnification mirror may help me spot blackheads, but I doubt it will help me see traffic.

Sure enough, as I’m thinking about police and prisons, I see flashing lights behind me. I figure I’ve been spotted, but I change lanes and slow down like I’m a law-abiding, innocent driver. My inspection is up to date. There’s no “improper equipment” here.

The lights get closer. I wish I could just disappear. But, I take time to ponder why the police get to travel at any speed they want.

I can understand it when they’re in pursuit of a dangerous criminal or rushing to Krispy Kreme® for a donut. But I think in some cases, they speed just because they can. No one is giving them a ticket.

I think about real car chases on television — the ones that make the evening news. I consider briefly if I should make a break for it. I’d careen dramatically off the next exit, tires squealing, and lay down some serious rubber; making a clean get-away.

My picture, the one where I’m grinning like an insane hyena, gets plastered onto the Post Office’s “Most Wanted” wall. Mothers toting small children are aghast reading about my crime.

My reckless driving disgusts even teenagers. And they should know — they wrote the book on it. They draw graffiti all over my poster, giving me a bushy mustache and crossed eyes.

I picture my mother talking to news reporters. Shaking her head, she cries over my fugitive status. She’s long been resigned to me turning out badly, despite my upbringing, which she claims was nearly perfect.

Mom appears on the talk-show circuit. Her hair is done up and she’s wearing the $100 suit she got at Kohls® on-sale for $5. She chats chummily with the hosts, dispensing advice on how to successfully raise kids.

She tells everyone she’s not surprised I’m an outlaw. She’s just surprised it took so long for those traits (not on her side) to come out. After all, I’m already a deserter. I left my family in the wonderful, frozen Northlands for the slimy low-lands of the South. So certainly, I can’t be expected to have proper manners or car side-mirrors.

As I contemplate this dire scenario, I notice I’ve already passed the exit. So, spectacular escapes are now out of the question. Though I suppose I could exit off-road through the swamp and gators. Maybe next time.

The flashing lights are now only three cars behind me. The vehicle is matching my speed, which has dropped below the posted minimum. 

I look back. The flashing lights have moved into the center lane. The vehicle is moving faster. With consternation, I realize it will pass me. Perhaps this cop thinks he’ll get promoted if he brings me in all by himself.

The vehicle flies by, trailing a long plume of exhaust.

It’s a tow truck.

DRIVING TOO

I’m driving down Interstate 40, already late for an appointment.

It’s been a while since I’ve had to be anywhere on time. My usual routines are in shambles. It takes me two hours to shower. That’s because I have to shave my legs, which I haven’t done since the summer.

The mat of leg hair is so thick I’d be better off using a machete rather than a razor. And shaving is a must. I’m wearing a suit with a skirt. I don’t think I’d make a good impression if I walked in with hair sticking out of my nylon pantyhose.

I have to eat something before I leave. It could be distracting if my stomach starts growling in the middle of my meeting. Besides, eating for me is like meditation for a yogi — not something I can just dispense with.

I can’t eat in the car. I’ve never perfected the art of “lap” dining. Ketchup gravitates like a magnet to anything white I’m wearing. Crumbs unerringly find the slightest crevice to fill — like the one between my camisole and blouse. And forget about take-out coffee. I haven’t figured out how to bend back a plastic lid so it doesn’t bounce back in my face when I’m drinking.

Wolfing down a power bar and glass of juice, I check my makeup and head out the door. I get into my car and turn the ignition. I check my driver-side mirror before I pull out.

That’s when I notice I no longer have a mirror.

It’s destroyed. Someone must have sideswiped me as they drove down the street. Maybe it was a bus. Or maybe it was a kid on a bike with a baseball bat. In any case, I don’t think I can drive all the way to Raleigh without a mirror.

I go back in the house and bring out masking tape. Some of the mirror’s plastic housing is intact, but the mirror itself is smashed. It dangles precariously by a single wire.

I rail at the Gods for their bad timing. Why couldn’t this have happened on a day I didn’t have driving obligations, like most other days of the week? Oh no — that would be too easy.

Carefully, I hoist the mirror onto the housing and tape it back into place. Though the glass is cracked, I can still see cars in the reflection. The images are just distorted and blurry, like those in a fun house.

Getting back into the car, I shift into gear and head out. I drive slowly, checking the mirror to make sure it’s not coming loose. Nothing happens so I hit the accelerator pedal, zooming up to thirty miles per hour. That’s when the mirror starts shaking.

I’m driving over a bridge. I can’t just pull over to the side of the road. So I slow down. I open my window and reach for the mirror to steady it. But by this time, it’s doing a shimmy like a belly dancer.

I inch down my window, trying not to be distracted. Distracted drivers cause accidents. And I’ve already had one.

I get the window down and stick my hand out in the freezing cold and wind. As I touch the mirror, it breaks free. I watch it in disbelief as it does a perfect swan dive. It sails over the railing and off the bridge into the murky waters of the Cape Fear River far below.

MARCHING BAND

Being a high-school band member required participation in marching band. And boy, did Mark and I hate that.

Like most high schools, we had a football team. Along with the cheerleaders and water boys, we’d don our uniforms and perform every week. We practiced our marching routines on Saturday mornings and developed some clever half-time shows. At least, we thought they were.

But whenever we played, either silence or weak applause greeted us. My parents never came to see Mark and I perform at a football game, though they attended our concert performances. I’d like to think it was because it was too cold to be outdoors.

No one in band (even Jay Lowenstein before he moved) was ever invited to any of the post-game football parties. These were held by the football team members mostly at an abandoned stone quarry called, imaginatively enough, “The Quarry.” It was a local hang-out for the “in” crowd.

I always wanted to go. My hopes soared when I briefly dated a football quarterback. I didn’t date Andy for that reason. But he did nothing to actually get me invited. So when Andy got creamed during a particularly tough game, I felt he deserved it. And I let his new girlfriend, a cheerleader, rush to his side.

Our band performances were really not bad, but we did suffer from a few handicaps.

Lakeland High endured years of budget cuts. Mr. Haines said we were lucky to even have a music program, let alone a marching band (yeah, or he would have been long gone).

We barely had enough uniforms and the ones we had, “reeked.” My uniform was huge. The sleeves fell over my hands making it difficult to play. On Mark’s uniform, the pant legs were so short the cuffs flapped as he walked. When he tried to execute a high-step, his entire shin was exposed.

There weren’t enough funds to buy luxury items like those clips to hold the sheets of music in place as you march. We were forced to improvise. And it wasn’t pretty.

Paper clips and rubber bands frequently came off. Sheets of music were trampled before you could even retrieve them. I couldn’t easily attach anything to my instrument. A piccolo doesn’t have a large surface area. So I tried to memorize most of my music. Unfortunately, others didn’t.

When anyone lost their music, the entire marching routine suffered. Besides the obvious loss of musicality, it was easy to miss marching cues. The cues were a series of choreographed hand signals and whistle blasts. They told us when to move or stop, when to turn, and in what direction. The cues are necessary to execute various formations, like a football or a turkey.

The last time we missed our cues at a game, it was a disaster.

It was cold and windy. My fingers were sluggish, along with everyone else’s. We tried to play a quick, bright march just to warm up. But it sounded like music for a funeral procession. My improvised clip, holding new music I’d yet to learn, collapsed.

I broke out of my row, trying to grab the music as it sailed away. The wind picked up. More band members lost their music. Mr. Haines blasted his whistle frantically to bring us back to order. But we were too scattered already for that.

That’s when it started snowing . The snow grew heavy. The football game ended. And mercifully, so did our aborted performance.