Encore, bravo, encore!

Sport’s piano recital was last weekend. This thing usually lasts about 3 hours (I am not exaggerating) as 30 students, ranging from the ages of 6 to 18, all perform a special piece of music. We are very proud of our boy, as he won the Outstanding Performer of the Year and was a big hit as The Narrator for the Romantic Period, looking adorable in his double-breasted suit and jaunty cap.

But I’m not going to brag on him.

About midway through the performance, two little old ladies came wobbling in and sat on our row. One was wearing her best Sunday-go-to-meetin’ fur coat. The other had her blue hair perfectly coiffed and was clutching a cavernous black bag. Settling into their chairs, faces creased with enigmatic smiles, they opened their programs to find the name of their musically-inclined loved one.

The auditorium in which the recital took place is no Carnegie Hall, but sound does travel. Shifting bodies, rustling papers, cranky babies – all combine to make distractions. We were warned by Ms. Melody at the beginning of the program to turn off cell phones and pagers and take crying children to the foyer. The two elders missed this particular speech.

During one rather long example of the Contemporary Period, the Woman in the Fur Coat (WFC) got a hankering for a Tic Tac. Tic Tacs, in a quiet space, are one of the loudest candies on the market. They got even louder when WFC fished for them in her bag, shook them in an effort to open the container, and then dropped her bag (and the entire contents) onto the floor.

It got even more interesting when the Blue-Haired Lady (BHL) got a call on her cell phone. It seemed to ring at least 5 times as she tried to locate it in the cavernous black purse.

“Hello?” BHL’s voice carried across the hall as the student on stage struggled with a difficult Scott Joplin piece.

“I’m at the recital.” Pause.

“The recital.” Her enigmatic smile dimmed slightly.

“I’m going to have to call you back.” Another pause.

“I. Will. Call. You. Back.” She carefully closed the phone. And, of course, did not turn it off.

A few minutes passed; then, her phone rang again.

“Hello?” Pause.

“I’m at the recital.” A sigh.

“The recital.” Slight cough.

“I’m going to have to call you back.” Clearing of the throat.

“I. Will. Call. You. Back.”

The exact same conversation, same inflection, same words, everything.

I got tickled and had to swallow down the giggles.

And then it rang again. By this time, I’m so cracked up at the whole thing that I’m feeling a wave of hysteria. Who in the world needs to talk to this 78-year-old woman so desperately that they keep calling back every five minutes? Does she have a secret lover? An impending book deal? Did she win the Publisher’s Weekly sweepstakes? Why didn't she turn off the damn phone?

LegoGuy saw me laughing into my coat and began giggling himself. SO, on the other side of us, started to lose it as well.

But what really got us happened in the middle of the last song. BHL’s phone rang again and at the same moment, WFC let go the longest, rat-a-tat-tat of a fart I’ve ever heard. Magnified by the acoustics of the hall, the sound was unmistakable.

As the music ended in a swell of fortissimo, applause filled the air. The three of us were able to finally let our laughter out, channeling guffaws into cries of “Bravo! Bravo!”