Day 873

Living in the same house for a lifetime is a beautiful thing. Each time the lights illuminate the football field across the street, a feeling of nostalgia permeates my soul.

Lilly and I enjoyed a marching band rehearsal the other night. As I listened to the music (drums were my life), my heart was drawn to the percussion. I smile, even now, when I remember some of the antics our section was brave enough to attempt!

One of the multitudes of our “creative endeavors” had to do with the death of my goldfish. Mentioning it to my drum section, they decided it needed a proper funeral. My only responsibility was to gather chairs in my living room. As the “mourners” arrived, my folks were entertained by the black wardrobes, cards, flowers and extremely somber expressions.

Once seated, tissues were passed around and one of the percussionists stepped forward to officiate. The little fish was in a box on a bed of silk material. Bryan, our minister for the day, began singing the praises of my goldfish. Others, about a dozen mourners in all, wept (laughed) into their tissues.

When the funeral was over, everyone “tearfully” paid their final respects to the fish. Finally, we filed out, jumped in various cars, turned our headlights on and headed to a Rum River bridge north of town. There, after a short ceremony, the box was tossed off the bridge and gently floated down the river.

That entire scene came to mind as the band played on and I embraced that memory like a long lost friend. Looking at the young people marching on the field, I hoped they were busy making band memories.

I reached down to rub Lilly’s ears and told her how lucky I felt to have these memories…and her. We both looked down at the field and enjoyed the rest of the show.