Most of us have participated in an activity – sports, musical performance,
public speaking – that includes onlookers or fans. There is an audience of some
description. They may be seated in bleachers, on folding chairs, in a venue of
some kind, while you yourself are participating in The Main Event.
I was always a quiet, reticent kind of child. I would rather be at home
with my nose stuck in a book and my mind engaged in the imaginary life of the
written word, than to be part of any kind of a performance in front of people.
Nevertheless, at an early age I found myself in front of the congregation at
church singing a duet; or in the social hall of a local church at a piano recital.
You probably fall into two classifications: a natural performer and an
extrovert; or an introvert who finds herself suddenly and inexplicably exposed
to the general public. No matter which category you fall into, you still desire
your supporters to be with you in the audience for moral support, to cheer you
on, and in the event that you fall flat on your face, to console you afterwards.
Although it was not naturally in my makeup to voluntarily do things in
front of people, it was a life lesson for me. By repetition, I became more
comfortable with singing special numbers in church, for example. And in my
profession, I have become accustomed to speaking to larger groups of people on
subjects where I have some expertise.
When I was small, I noticed that in church on Sunday mornings, there
were some people who weren’t singing the same notes most of us were. They were
singing what my mother explained was “the harmony.” It was beautiful, and I wanted
to learn how. I hadn’t had any formal musical training yet, but since I was
interested, when we got home Mom told me to sing the melody of a song we had
sung together (I can’t remember which one), and she sang the harmony, and asked
me to listen. After a couple of repetitions, she sang the melody, and I sang
the harmony part she had been singing. Later, when I could read music, I started
singing the alto part of songs in the hymnal at church. This led to my being
asked to sing an occasional special piece of music in church with my buddy. I
looked up between verses to see my mother’s eyes in the congregation, glowing
with encouragement.
Over the years I took up an instrument and became part of our school
band. In junior high school, we would join the high school band for Christmas
and Spring concerts. It was an expectation that the family would attend these
concerts, although my father expressed a reluctance to attend, based on his
aversion to hearing the unavoidable squeaking clarinet reeds. Nevertheless, the
Smith family, plus Grandma Chamness would be sitting in metal folding chairs on
the gymnasium floor, listening to my band concerts.
As a girl, there were not too many opportunities to be formally involved
in sports, although growing up in a neighborhood consisting mainly of boys, I
had to learn to play certain games or spend my summer days alone. Consequently,
I became pretty good at baseball and softball, and when I got to high school, I
found an opportunity to play with a women’s fast-pitch softball team that
formed in my hometown. I was a small, wiry girl, weighing 105 pounds soaking
wet, and 5 pounds of that was probably my long hair. But I was good at
fielding, running the bases, and had a good swing. My size meant that I would
never be a power hitter, but playing fast pitch, if I could connect properly
with the ball, nine times out of ten, I could hit it over the heads of the
infielders and get on base.
We practiced intently, and then had our summer season with women’s
teams from nearby towns. Those women were some tough old birds for the most
part, and since our pool of teams was small, we became well acquainted with the
abilities of the other teams. Therefore, it was known that I was a good hitter.
The Johnson City team had a pitcher named Babe. She was a strong, hefty woman
with an arm like a cannon. And she could put all her pitches exactly where she
wanted them. She knew she had to pitch to me. But there was another option – which
she resorted to; she could also hit me. That would put me on first base but
would prevent the runner on third from coming in and scoring. So, as I limped
to first base. I looked up in the stands and saw my mother glaring holes at
Babe. If looks could kill, Babe would have been dead on the spot. Dad’s
reaction, on the other hand, was “Wow, those girls really can play!”
The next occasion for me to have spectators in the audience was my high school graduation. Then college graduation, but this time Mom was with me on
the floor of the auditorium at SIU (Southern Illinois University) because she
too was graduating from college.
A few years after college, I got married and moved to Maryland. My
experiences with audiences didn’t include my parents now, but Mom kept in touch
remotely and was still my biggest fan. She followed me as I continued with my
musical pursuits, progressed in my career, and raised three children. She
always made it clear that she was my biggest fan and managed to come to
Maryland after each child was born, and to be in the bleachers when my children
graduated from high school and college, and when I got my master’s degree.
With every accomplishment I looked for her face in the bleachers,
whether literally or figuratively. She would always be there, if only in spirit.
Being a mother meant so much more when I was able to share the experiences of raising
a family with my own mother. In my heart of hearts, I can still feel her there,
although this is the first Mother’s Day that she is not with us. I know that she
is still my biggest fan, and feel a warm spot knowing that it was she who
taught me what being a mother is.
