I spent an extraordinary evening in Orangeville this weekend, at a classical music concert put on by one of my nephews, who's planning a career in music, and has been conditionally accepted at the University of Toronto. He plays the trumpet and the piano. His siblings also play piano and trumpet, and together, they put on a concert to raise funds for his tuition. This was not chopsticks, let me tell you, this was Debussy, and Rachmaninoff (why so angry, asks my husband...), and honestly, I don't know who all, but serious, fabulous music. There was no napping in the audience, especially as one of the brothers slyly inserted several bars of the Flintstones theme song into the Rhapsody in Blue. It totally worked.
The young man who's headed to school spoke between pieces, self-effacing and humble and unintentionally funny. The concert hall wasn't packed, but it was close to full, and at 15 bucks a head, he will do well enough to pay for at least some of his texts, should his high school marks be good enough to get him into the program.
As I watched this talented and hard-working young man up there, I thought, if I'd been prescient enough to fund raise for my education, what sort of programme could I have managed? I'm pretty sure no one would pay money to hear me complain about the patriarchy, a favourite theme of mine at the time. I doubt they would care to hear about the thrill I got from reading 'The Stones of Venice". Neither would many people pay to see my excellent work at daydreaming, journal writing, necking, movie-watching or vodka-and-OJ consumption at Junior Farmers' dances.
We spend a lot of time despairing over youth these days, but I'm thinking some of these youtes are all right.
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