Rain, Rain, Go Away...After Band Practice

It has been raining with incredible vigor all this week. It ranges from a slight drizzle that does little more than annoy people, to a ferocious downpour that makes it seem like the sea is trying to reclaim the land via air drop. The rain has been pretty much the defining feature of this week. Not much else has happened, at least since I last wrote.

One amusing story took place during band practice. It was raining some when I got there, but when we all dragged our tuba cases out and were just starting to open them, the floodgates opened and it began to pour in earnest. So we all piled into the trailer, where the drums and tubas are kept.

A little explanation is needed, to set the scene at this point. The trailer is fairly large, but there is a wooden board, bolted to the sides of the trailer, at about chest height running through most of the middle. This is to make it so that tubas can be stacked both below and above the board, as space is at a premium in this trailer. There’s a lot of equipment to hold and it isn’t particularly large, as trailers go. The board stops one or two feet from the back door of the trailer, so as to allow a little room for loading and offloading. The back door comes down like a drawbridge. Picture this in your mind. Now picture this still half-full of instruments, rain dripping through the roof, people trying to cram themselves inside.

Now...picture a dinosaur rampaging through New York, a T. Rex, smashing and destroying all in his path, and only a squadron of giant flying robots has the power to stop it. Why? Because it’s fun, and I figured you’d picture anything if I told you to.

But back to the story. There shouldn’t be room in the back of the trailer, if you closed the door, for more than three people. About nine of us were stuffed inside, trying to close the door from the inside, and then discovering why you cannot do this. We picked a sacrificial freshman and told him to run outside and close the door. He did so, because he is an inoffensive sort that would probably give you his wallet if you told him to in a stern voice. He crawled back in through the side door and wriggled through the tuba cases to where we were standing.

A few minutes passed, in which we laughed and speculated whether or not Mr. Watkins, the band director, would let us all go home. No such luck, as it happened. Our leader, “Keith,” poked his head in the side door, beholding the nine of us, damp and overexcited. He decided that immediate action would be required, but he still managed to compose himself with dignity, grace, and above all, tact.

“GET THE [censored] OUT AND GET TO PRACTICE!” he roared.

“NO!” we replied cheerfully. “It’s raining out there! We could get wet!”

“I don’t care!” bellowed Keith. “Get out of this [censored] trailer and get your tubas on! Come on!” He disappeared, to general fear that he was going to open the big door in the back. Cries of “Hold it shut!” and “You CAN’T from the inside!” echoed around the cramped trailer. I would have tried to help, but I was laughing far too hard to be of any assistance.

Much argument ensued. Eventually, it was impressed upon us that we would, in fact, have to go to practice. It would not be held on the marching field, which was rapidly disappearing underwater, but instead would be held in the nearby parking garage. Faced with the undeniable fact that prolonged exposure to rain didn’t augur well for tubas (or their open cases, which would get moldy if wet), Keith agreed to a compromise. We were to run out in shifts of two, grab our cases, haul them inside, open them and assemble the tubas in the trailer, then bolt for the garage. This proved difficult, at first, with the sheer number of people involved. With a lot of huffing and puffing, and a considerable amount of swearing, eventually we all got assembled and hurried for the garage.

The garage had been used for band practice several times before, when the rain became too extreme. It worked relatively well for shielding us from the direct rain, but it had its drawbacks. For one thing, it always seemed to be twenty degrees hotter and a good deal more humid inside the garage than it did outside; the humidity quirk being an impressive feat this day, given that it was still raining heavily. Also, there was a car near where the brass players practiced (the brass, the woodwinds, and the percussion had all split off into separate groups) that had an insanely sensitive car alarm. Whenever the air near it was sufficiently disturbed – say, by us playing together – this apparently triggered its systems, and it would wail and shriek until we stopped. If I ever find out which car it is, I will endeavor to rectify this problem. Perhaps with a sledgehammer.

The third problem was unique to this day. The sewer system, as we found out swiftly, had been overwhelmed by the sudden influx of water, and was completely useless in terms of drainage. This, combined with the fact that the floor of the garage was slightly lower than the ground level outside, made for an indoor river that sluggishly expanded its borders.

Somewhat more explanation is required here. We had formed a “concert arc,” a semi-circle of band members facing inwardly at the director, in the middle. The river gradually expanded into a lake, widening slowly but unstoppably. As nobody wanted to be caught standing ankle-deep in rainwater runoff and sewer water, the arc was split asunder, with nervous-looking students on the banks of the lake. This caused much consternation on the part of our director, who was observed to have an expression that clearly communicated the concept “I wish that this just wasn’t happening.” Those on one side happened to be trapped, as it were, because they had walls on three sides of them and a rising body of water on the fourth. Those of us on the outside jeered at them for being “marooned” until we were made to join them. This dismayed us.

The futility of the whole thing apparently got to our band director, who ended practice an hour early. And that’s all I’ve got, in terms of stories. As for personal replies...

Mom: http://bcvgms-4.ytmnd.com/ for the specific music.

Jake: Less personal comments, more personal REPLIES to comments. Dig? And I’ll take as many Elementals as I can get my grubby little paws on, capische?

Steve: I was going to look between those and find out, but I’m too lazy, so we used the music at this page: http://bcvgms-4.ytmnd.com/ And I choose Goblins. Yes, we waited a long time, but now Lorwyn block empowers us both with ridiculously broken Goblins and Elves.

Kelli: I mean, as I say, personal replies to comments. Not actual personal comments. And when Steve said elves vs. goblins, he meant we had a specific challenge ongoing, to see who could build the most broken deck with all cards in Magic (even the really old and broken ones). Feel better. Strep throat blows.

Vic: <3 And, as before, personal REPLIES, not COMMENTS. And you probably won’t see the show, unless you come to Jacksonville for the Florida/Georgia game. (Don’t even ask me why the game is there.)