The Drum Major

It is difficult to fully embrace the thought that my son, James, is a Drum Major. This is due to the fact that I possess a full set of memories which go back to the time when he was a mischievous little boy with a sly smile who was always up to something.

We only caught him at it a few times, but we know he was always up to something.

Now he marches in a white uniform with a beard and highway patrolman sunglasses and looks oh so grown-up and polished and responsible and confident. And he directs a large group of his peers as they march and strut and gambol around the football field, wielding their instruments in a performance that brings the crowd to their feet.

How is this possible? When did he suddenly become this Drum Major person?

He does have a presence when he marches onto the field, a sense of Being There that commands attention, that focuses their eyes on the motion of his arms as they swing up and down, to and fro, keeping the beat, keeping the time, keeping them all in step, in sync, in rhythm.

The sight of it brings a thrill to my heart. It is nothing that I would ever dared dream for myself in my long-lost days of high school, though I craved the pleasure of the crowd and the sound of applause in my own way. And it is an odd feeling to look out on the field and see someone you know, someone whose life has been witnessed by you in such detail from tiny infant to nearly-adult, seemingly cast in a role that is so remote from your own experience.  Realizing yet again that they are a completely different human being at the beginning of their own journey, and who knows where they will go?

So I sit back and watch the show.