A Duck May Be Somebody's Mother...

There's just something about marching bands, John Philip Sousa, and uniforms that thrill the heck out of me, making me entirely heckless...

Once upon a time, not so long ago, there was this little girl (my daughter), who played the flute. I thought, right from the beginning, how proud I would be when my flutist would pick up a piccolo -- that impertinent, feisty instrument whose high notes can clean out your ears -- and play the obligato from the Star Spangled Banner. Pride in one's child, Love of Country, the reveling in music; is there a greater joy anywhere in any combination? (Not if it's your kid, and you love marches.)

Time passed. The seniors' final performance was at hand. The high school band and its leader were all in full uniform. The auditorium was set with fold-up chairs. The end of the concert was at hand. What was the finale?

"Da dah dit da dah, da da da da da dah!" Crash of cymbals! It was! My heart jumped into my mouth. J. Sousa always repeats his themes every so often and the trombones and clarinets all had their turns. The piccolo solo was nigh. This wisp of a girl, my daughter, rose. It was the culmination of 17 years for me.

The piccolo music soared over the gymnasium. The high notes, sharp, urgent, compelling, were hit like nails. The percussion section (I always liked drummers) stood up and waved huge American flags, and can you believe it? Tons of glitter fell on the audience from the ceiling.

Too soon, it was over. There was a moment of silence. Then the school auditorium erupted into applause, whistles, hat waving. Parents, teachers, the principal -- all were one in the celebration of music, our country, our opportunities, our school, our children. We were rural Coloradans, but we were Americans, too. At that moment, there was no pettiness; we were brought together by the genius of music performed by our beginning-to-be-adult children, in a facility paid for by our taxes, in our home town, population 975.

If that's not patriotism, what is?