I was 10. In music class, our teacher would have us line up on these mini-bleachers in the classroom. While we all sang whichever ditty (most likely, "Everything I Do, I Do it for You" by Bryan Adams. Teacher had a real hang-up on that song), she would walk down the line and listen to each of us.
As class went on, she would point out the good singers among us, and ask the bad singers to stop and listen. Most of the people she stopped would be allowed to start up again after hearing the talented choir she'd cultivated.
When she halted my spastic harmonies, she kept it that way. Sat in silence the rest of the period.About the 3rd week in, she testily asked me if I wanted to go to the principal's office. I was so bad at conveying Bryan Adam's melodious sensibilities, she thought I was misbehaving. She asked me to stop and listen to what singing is meant to sound like, and then proceeded to down some aspirin she had conveniently stored inside her piano bench.
Your father has a nice singing voice, too. That's what my mum told me, as we drove about town one day. It's the "too" that's misleading. The implication being that among my many inherited traits, a vocal acumen was bequeathed.
Looking back, that was awfully kind of her.
Maybe she had a value size of Tylenol stashed away in the glovebox.
