Clap on Two

My wife was an elementary school teacher when our first child came to us, and she decided to take some time off and stay at home with him.  Her students were, of course, thrilled to welcome this new life into their lives, and to celebrate, each student drew a picture on a one-foot square piece of cloth.  Parents then took the squares and made them into two quilts, with a rainbow edge.

The quilts played a special role early in my son’s life.  After dinner, we’d spread one of the quilts on the floor, and plop our hearty lad in the middle of it, right next to the tall floor speakers that were all the rage of sound systems at the time.  We’d then put on Mary Chapin Carpenter’s When Halley Came to Jackson, and teach my son the most essential of initial music lessons—stomp on one, clap on two.

I can’t emphasize the importance of this lesson enough.  Clapping on one is just a big no-no, and it drives professional musicians crazy—so much so that many will actually add an extra beat in a measure just to get the audience back on track.  I’m pleased to say my son got the idea right away—and while he didn’t always clap directly on the beat, he came to be pretty good at rhythm over time—and his face always beamed when it was clapping time.

These early living room concerts paid off big dividends later on down the road, when we enrolled our son in a music appreciation class at the local community center.  The teacher was absolutely brilliant, incorporating the names of her students in the songs they sung, marching around the room to reinforce the rhythms they were exploring, and listening to recorded music most of the children didn’t have access to at home.

That was definitely the case in February, when the teacher introduced the students to Ladysmith Black Mambazo.  Between the language differences and the improvised howling, the recording clearly caught most of the students by surprise.  This is easy to discern with five-year olds, because their eyes widen to the diameter of a coffee cup.

And that happened that day, with all of the students, but one.  One student was listening to song and nodding his had up and down, side to side.  One student had found the rhythm and made it his own.

My son.

At that very moment, I felt like, if I left the room and never saw my son again, I had done my duty as a father—I taught him the power of downbeat, and how to be cool.

Mission accomplished.

Ode to the Coney

The real mystery
Is the name.
This hot dog’s roots
Lie well beyond the East Coast
Perhaps it’s an effort to introduce
Intrigue
Mystery.

Then again, we are talking about a hot dog.
Maybe they named it
Just for fun.

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