Due to popular demand (or lack of
opposition), I feel compelled to share the story of The Great Color
Guard Rifle Twirling Fiasco mentioned in my last post, as straight
forwardly as I can.
Back in the day, when dinosaurs roamed
the earth and pterodactyls routinely picked off small children as
afternoon snacks, being in the high school band was cool. At least
that's what we told ourselves. We even had our own special
“Bandcoming Week” with cool dress-up days like “Hat &
Spats” Day, and “Shades & Bandanas” Day to celebrate our
nerdiness... I mean coolness.
In addition to being cool,
participation in marching band was on equal footing with football and
cheerleading, meaning that participating in football or cheerleading did not get you out of marching with the band at halftime.
(At least that's how I remember it, and this is my story, so....) Cheerleaders who were also flag girls or baton twirlers mastered the fine art of changing out of one short skirt
into another in our cars. (We always kept our lollies – or privacy
shorts – on, so get your minds out of the gutter.) Believe me that
feat of contortion was much easier as a limber high schooler. (It was
after a sweaty 5K, back out of the gutter.)
One more little detail which is vitally
important to the story: Our band was blessed with a plethora of
flutes and clarinets.
Another important detail: Our band
director, affectionately referred to as Wim Jeaver, sweat more than
any other human being I have ever encountered. In the heat of the
directing moment I'm pretty sure he could sling sweat clear to the
back row of the brass section. Flutes in the front row didn't stand a
chance. Clarinets in the second row didn't fare much better.
So, partly because there were so many
of us, and partly because we would do anything to get out of the
sweat storm, most of the flutists and clarinetists became flag girls.
I'm sure the term “flag girl” offends someone out there, but
you're just going to have to get over it. This was back before we
even thought about being politically correct. We were girls, we
twirled flags, end of story.
In fact, as I recall we had almost as
many flag girls (and two baton twirlers) as we did band members. This
is (of course) yet another important detail.
When I was a junior, a new girl
transferred to our school and our band. She had been a member of the
color guard rifle twirlers at her old school, and, upon finding color
guard rifles stowed behind the flags stacked somewhat haphazardly in
our band room closet, she suggested incorporating those into our
halftime show.
Back then, we didn't go to marching
band competitions. I'm not even sure there was such a thing. My point
is, we performed an entirely new show for each home football game.
Things were simpler then. We only played other teams in our
conference, all the conference teams were within a 45 minute drive,
and we played home games every other week.
Again, that's how I remember it. I
can't really say for sure because after running through the flag
routine with us once, Wim pretty much left us alone to practice.
Which we did. Vigilantly. Never goofing around or wasting time. High
school girls are responsible like that.
 |
| WLHS Flag Girls, Baton Twirler and Majorette circa 1983. |
The only problem with adding a color
guard rifle twirling unit was that there were only two color guard
rifles in anything near twirling condition.
The solution: Our color guard rifle
twirling unit would consist of only two members. Two girls would
never be missed from the flag fleet.
Somehow I managed to convince Wim to
let me join the new girl in the color guard duo. I'm not sure
how this happened, but I imagine his final decision was announced
with a heavy sigh, an exaggerated rolling of the eyes, and
inspirational words along the lines of “Go ahead. Just don't screw
it up.”
Now that you've read this far, I should
probably warn you that I may be the only one who finds this story
funny. It's really more of a visual story. The Princess always
laughs when I tell it, but I'm not sure if that's because of the
story itself, or because of the massive amount of pantomime twirling
that accompanies it. Anyway, you're going to have to imagine a lot of
hand gestures and spinning and twirling and tossing. If you've ever
seen the precision movements of a real color guard, imagine the
exact opposite.
I would also like to say that,
unfortunately, I honestly don't remember the name of the other girl.
She was a sweet thing, and this story should in no way reflect upon
her as a person. In fact, I have never told this story to the general
public before because I don't want to accidentally offend or
embarrass her. For God's sake, if you think this story is about you,
don't tell anyone. And don't slash my tires.
After much serious practice –
remember, we were responsible high school girls – the night of the
big performance finally arrived. The marching band took the field for
the half-time show. The color guard duo took our places in front of
the band. The eyes of the entire home crowd were upon us. You could
sense the anticipation. You could cut the tension with a knife. The
band started to play. We twirled our rifles once, twice and...
My twirling partner dropped her rifle.
OK. No big deal, right? Except that she
didn't pick it up.
I gave her a look that said “What the
heck?” I kept twirling. She didn't pick it up.
I gave her another look that said “No,
seriously. What the heck?” I kept twirling. She didn't pick it up.
But she did keep pantomiming twirls.
Wim gave her a look. I kept twirling.
She didn't pick it up. She did keep pantomiming.
Wim rolled his eyes, shook his head and
focused all his attention on the band, ignoring us.
I kept twirling. Except by now I was
thoroughly lost and had no idea what came next in our routine.
I realized it didn't really matter,
because I was the only one actually twirling a rifle.
I could do whatever the heck I wanted.
I did whatever the heck I wanted.
My poor partner stood there nearly in
tears pantomiming what may or may not have been the rest of our
routine as I twirled and whirled and flailed and danced about like
some sort of deranged lunatic until the song finally, mercifully
ended.
Tah Dah! I nailed the ending with great
flourish.
Our brief but illustrious incarnation
as the WLHS color guard ended with something less of a flourish.
At the next home game I was busted down
to pretend trombone player, sans mouthpiece. I think Wim's
instructions were something along the lines of “Stand between these
two people. Do what they do. Go where they go. Don't play. Don't
screw it up.”
I'm sure this was accompanied by a
heavy sigh and an exaggerated rolling of the eyes.
There's a lesson to be learned
here.
Keep on twirling.
Twirl like no one's watching.
Twirl and the world twirls with you,
drop your rifle and you stand alone.
Never trust a flag girl with a gun.
When you have a blog, you can twirl the
story any way you want.
Tah Dah!
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