"Remember, Missy, thangs ain't always what we spect um to be," Mr. Edge used to say. Mr. Edge was the old man who drove his mule and wagon to our house every spring to plow the garden for daddy. He let me ride the cross bar on his plow, especially when the added weight could help it dig deeper. " If'n you spect nothin you won't never be disappointed." he'd say as he turned over a bit of philosophical advise with every row. " Old Missouri's got mule sense so she knows when thangs ain't just right," he said one day as he bent down in the row to uncover a rusty length of barbed wire that had caused Missouri to balk. "Don't know why the good Lord didn't give us people mule sense. We just has Him to trust in." Much of the old man's philosophy has stuck with me, somewhat buried beneath the softness of my trust in others, but always there to call upon in threatening situations. Of course, I had missed the main point of Mr. Edge's tutelage. Things aren't always what the seem to be. Some things are so well camouflaged by our expectations of them that we don't recognize the threat.

Last winter I attended the graveside service of my high school band director, Mr. Blue, whose teaching had continued Mr. Edge's jewels of wisdom throughout my teen years. Mr. Blue was more than an educator. He had been a mentor to the dozens of aging adults standing at his grave on that severely cold winter morning, sharing stories of how the man had inspired their choices in life. It would take the better part of one year to gather as many of Mr. Blue's former students as we could find for a reunion performance in his honor. Music and rehearsal schedules were mailed to twelve states and four foreign countries as we dusted off instruments in an attempt to, once again, become musicians twenty to forty years after the fact.

Our hometown was swept into the excitement of our project, and we were asked to perform at our old high school's homecoming game in October. The reunion gathering of band members became a three day long affair with visits to the school's band room and social occasions to reminisce. Mr. Blue would have been proud of our ability to organize such an event. Everything and nothing about us had changed. The class flirts were still flirting, the class clowns were still clowning, and some of the wall flowers had bloomed into jet setting gregariously self-assured stars. Old girl friends were a bit overweight, and old boy friends were follicly challenged, their beards and mustaches groomed to manly perfection in attempts to misdirect the eye. We took our seats in the bleachers at the football stadium suffering teen aged nervousness about playing our part well and knowing that Mr. Blue was listening in judgment and present in encouragement of our efforts. The sound was amazing when the high school's present band director's baton came down. One hundred fifty senior citizens had accomplished a perfect warm-up choral. Every instrument was in tune.

Members of my Class of 1960 actually turned to look up the steps of the bleachers, looking for Artie Marshal who had been late to every class and performance during our years in high school. Artie never failed to miss warm-ups, playing every note for four years not quite in tune. Mr. Blue would mention hearing a sour note ever so often, but never suggested to Artie that he was the problem. Artie's mom and dad were deaf mutes and neither Mr. Blue nor any of Artie's classmates were going to question Artie's hearing ability. He was a quiet boy who never initiated a conversation, speaking only when spoken to. I always had the feeling that Artie would be a gabber if we all could read sign language. Winks and nods passed between members of the class of '60 as Artie made his way down the steps to the trumpet section after the warm-up choral was done. He took the joking and giggles in stride. Evidently nothing about Artie was changed. He was still his bashful, unassuming, tardy , out of tune self.

At half-time the '60s crowd gathered on the down wind side of the concession stand to protect ourselves from the chilly night breeze with hot coffee and warm memories.

"Hey, Artie old boy," Morris Quick asked, "where are you living now?"

"Atlanta," Artie replied. "Sorry I got here late. The construction on I-85 south of Atlanta slowed me down."

"Mr. Blue wouldn't let you off the hook with that excuse. He'd say you should have planned ahead because I-85 South has been under construction since Sherman's boys lit them fires on Stone Mountain."

Artie agreed, blushing a bit, and walked away toward the parking lot. The second half of the game was well underway when he returned to his seat in the trumpet section. I couldn't help but smile when the guy next to him pointed to the tuning slide on Artie's horn, gesturing for him to move it in a bit. Artie shook his head in agreement and ignored the suggestion continuing to play without the adjustment.

Our old school won the homecoming game, and our spirits were high as we walked to the parking lot promising to stay in touch and return next year for a repeat performance. I couldn't help but think how much things that change really remain the same when you have the opportunity to revisit them. The evening had out performed my expectations.

"Honey," I said as I made my way to the kitchen the next morning, " my body is paying the price for the attempt to return to my youth last night. The cold air and hard bleachers have left me stiff all over."

"Here," my husband said, handing me a cup of coffee, "you better drink this before you read the paper."

The local headlines were about happenings at the homecoming game, but not about the successful band reunion. " . . . . the man participated in the musical tribute to Mr. Albert Blue," it read, "while the six year old girl he had abducted from a community south of Atlanta remained locked in the trunk of his car. The little girl was rescued by police when a couple leaving the game early reported the sound of a crying child coming from the trunk. Arthur Marshall, age 56, of Fulton County, Georgia was arrested and the child's parents notified. According to information from the Georgia Bureau of Investigation, Marshall is under suspicion in the cases of two earlier child abductions in the same Atlanta area community.

 Copyright ©2002 Joanne Middlebrooks.  All Rights Reserved