I was in the 6^th grade.

My class was doing some sort of choir pageant thingie.  I had already had some notable successes on stage—perhaps you saw me in the 5^th grade production of The Invisible Man?  Well, you wouldn’t have actually seen me, given the character and all.  In fact, I read the lines from off-stage and earned rave reviews from the class newspaper—On the Scene with Room 14!  You could—and should—have seen me that same year portraying a giant cockroach.  No, it wasn’t Kafka’s Metamorphosis.  The psychiatric bill for that one would have been a bit high for elementary school.  I was just a giant bug being chased by an equally giant can of Raid.  Those who saw my performance were profoundly changed and/or disturbed.  Ah, those public school tax dollars at work.

In any case, my vast experience treading the boards landed me a solo in the 6^th grade choral concert.  Our school was a bit low-tech, and had only one ancient microphone, which was perpetually on the fritz.  It produced a feeble amplification that was one part technology and two parts wishful thinking.  Our music teacher compensated by telling us to sing louder and get as close to the mic as humanly possible.

Now enters a new character into our story—our beloved custodian Mr. Bowser.  We loved this man.  He was kind, friendly, and always stood ready to get a ball down from the roof of the school.  Mr. Bowser was of a mind to do all the little kiddos a favor, so the day before the big concert he took our ancient microphone apart and fixed it.

A truly kind man.

I wish he had told us in advance.

So here it comes—the big concert.  The room is filled with parents, teachers, students, and assorted classroom pets.  Our music teacher had one of those ginormous teacher voices that can be heard across the playground in a typhoon, so she made her announcements from the piano, without bothering to walk over to the microphone.

So no one knew.

My solo came at the third verse of the big song.  It was a song about trees, and somehow it was worthy of three verses.  The first verse featured a duet by two girls who couldn’t stop giggling long enough to actually sing.  They never even got close to the mic.

So no one knew.

The second verse had a group of terrified young ladies—five or six anyway—who were supposed to sing the “solo.”  Their voices, even combined, did not rise above the level of a whisper.

So no one knew.

My solo was next.  I had been practicing the deeply moving lyrics for weeks:

I saw a tree in the city street

Where buildings blocked the sun.

Green and lovely, I could see

It gave joy to everyone.

“How do you grow in the city streets,”

I said to the downtown tree.

This is the song that my tree friend sang to me…

My moment had come.  I was ready.  This solo would trump even my cockroach performance.  I stepped out from the choir and strode confidently forward.  The microphone shone golden in the light—that may have been tarnish, but it looked golden.  I got as close to the microphone as I could, since I knew it barely worked.  I took a deep breath, preparing to launch my destiny.

I sang.

At this point, I should probably explain something.  This microphone was the old-school variety that had the mic head affixed to the pole and a speaker right at the foot of selfsame pole.  The danger of feedback with those babies is tremendous.

While I’m explaining, I should also point out that this room was one of those elementary school multi-purpose rooms, with no stage.  I was standing on the floor, and the audience was sitting on the same level.

One more thing.  The room was packed with people, so much so that small children were crowding the floor right up to the speaker.  One boy in particular, about four years old, was sitting almost on top of the speaker.

Oh, the memory hurts…

I have always had a loud voice, and I launched into that solo swinging for the bleachers.  Our new and improved microphone did an amazing job amplifying my voice, and combined with the proximity of the speaker, produced feedback of truly epic proportions.  There was a shrieking, popping sound that is forever seared into the brain of anyone in attendance that fateful night.  Eyeglasses shattered, cats exploded, aircraft fell from the skies.

And the boy…

The little boy who was sitting almost on top of the speaker was flung backwards into the crowd.  The last I saw of him, he was screaming, clawing at his ears, and scrambling towards a woman I assume to be his mother.

It was quite a moment, all in all.

You know, this tale was meant to illustrate a point that I no longer have time to make.  As is so often the case, I got just a little carried away with my storytelling.  Feel free to come back next Saturday morning and find out why I felt the need to unburden yet another embarrassing episode from my past.