Last night your dad and I had a hard time sleeping. Finally I got up and went and got my notebook and did another tally for tomorrow. OK. It's going to be ok. It's not one hundred people. You see, he wanted to rent a hall for your senior recital but you wanted it at home. I get it. It will be a little like a wedding, grandparents in the front row, aunts and uncles and teachers to follow. Late comers will get overflow in the living room and basement. They will have a very good view from the simulcast. I bought two extra cakes from Kowalskis this morning. The big cake gets picked up from Byerlys tomorrow. We are equal opportunity cake people around here. Linda's punch fixins are in the freezer. Grandmommy is bringing napkins. I think we are set. Mark is upstairs tuning the Steinway as I write this.
I made it to the parking lot of Kowalskis. Then it hit me. What is it about parking lots? This morning from 5:30-6:30 was probably the last time I got to hear you practice some of this repertoire. This repertoire that you own. Last week the sun was coming up right as you played the climactic part of your composition. I'll remember that.
I love the repertoire. But I mostly love the occasional hymn that you throw in between to relax and reset. That is what I will miss most between 5:30 and 6:30 in the morning. Next year. Not that we are talking about next year.
This is your twelfth solo recital. It's a big program. Probably too big. Who is gonna tell the 17 year old his program is too big?
We based our whole curriculum on these recitals. Not contests. Not certifications. Just music. Playing music and sharing music. Loving music.
I wish the Eastview musical wasn't going on right now too. That alone would be a lot for anyone. And AP tests. And deadlines for University of Iowa housing applications.
But, somehow you have done it all with pretty much of a happy heart, and blood, and sweat and a couple tears.
Tomorrow is your day. Your day to shine and share. And celebrate. With so many people who love you. Fifty-five to be exact. . . which puts only five people in overflow if they all come. I digress.
Thank you for being you. I can't imagine a better son.
Teaching you for twelve years and then watching you with Dr. Wirth these last three years--I don't really know what to say. It's been the joy of my life.
Play pretty, tomorrow.
I love you.
Mama
P.S. Mary. . . thank you for putting together Calvin's piano scrap book and being the best little sister in the whole wide world. When your day comes to graduate I will cry buckets of tears too. You are our sunshine.
