Most everyone that reads this little piece of the internet knows that I am and always have been an avid singer. My fondest wish was that my children would be able to experience the magic that I did growing up singing in a choir. When we moved to Buffalo last year, my hopes were greatly diminished. There just isn't a group that comes close to the unique experience that is the Chorus of Westerly.
Just when I gave up on the idea, St. Paul's Cathedral announced that they had hired a new organist and choirmaster. On a wing and a prayer I emailed him and asked if he had time to speak with me. We had a wonderful lunch together and quickly discovered that we came from the same background - a wonderful choir. He had continued on with musical studies. I had not. But he was anxious to rebuild the choirs, and readily agreed to bring in Sam to see if it was a good fit. Thanks to my three sons, hot prospects all, I was also able to join the Men's Choir.
I am so out of my league it is amusing. Every person in that choir is a professional musician or student of music. Perfect pitch abounds,as does a level of musicality that I have never experienced before. I was usually ahead of the curve in the groups I sang with. Not the case anymore. These guys were the hardcore music geeks of your childhood memories. And I'm sure they took their share of ribbing over it. Even I dealt with the occasional teasing about singing in a choir while growing up. Hint: it's worth every harsh word thrown at you.
Sam fell instantly in love with it. He was hooked after one open rehearsal. He's been singing for just about two months now. And he is paid. Yes, you read that correctly. My seven year old is a professional singer. I believe his wage is $1 per month. Oh, and he's going on tour to London in two years, as will be his brothers if my evil plan comes together.
However, we all know that the likelihood of all three of my strong willed little men loving singing is about as likely as all three of them becoming professional baseball players. To wit:
Driving home from Sunday services two weeks ago, Noah was clearly enthralled with the fact that Sam was actually singing. Aidan? Not so much.
"Sammy," Noah gleamed, "how do you sing like that?"
Sammy, who was basking in the adulation of his younger sibling, replied, "Like what, Noah?", clearly waiting for a chest puffing compliment.
But before Noah could answer, from the seat next to him a lilting voice carried beautifully through the car, "Liiiiiiiiiiiikkkkkkkkkkeeeeeeeeeeee aaaaaaaa Giiiiiiiiirrrrrrrlllllllllll."
