605 Lurleen B Wallace Blvd N
By Sarah Martin
It was a hot, August day, and I held my mother’s hand as we walked across Sixth Street. I wore my school grade khaki shorts, like many other Thursdays before this one, but this time I dawned a navy blue polo that was slightly too big for my own good. I was as excited, nervous, and energetic as any eight year old could possibly be.
“Now you know that if you need me I’m right across the street?” My mother said to me as she saw my eyes get wide with a nervous look the closer we got to the building.
I squeezed her hand a little harder and lying through my teeth, I told her that I thought I would be okay. It was only a church after all, and I had been in churches my whole life.
We walked through the iron gate that faced sixth street and followed down a stretch of cobble path until we arrived at the burgundy door which stood at the end of the path. Strangely enough, I thought, there was a keypad placed to the left of the door. Not knowing what to do, I looked up at my mother confused. She pressed in the numbers one-two-one-five and then a star.
“One-two-one-five-star?” I asked quietly.
She explained to me and that since we were in the downtown area the lock was there to keep people safe, just incase. I, for the most part, accepted this answer, and we walked inside. How strange, I thought, that a church would have a keypad lock on it but I walked on anyway. As we walked, we were greeted by an older woman with quite a cheerful demeanor.
“My how you’ve grown!” The woman said as she smiled and hugged me.
I gave her the kind of look that you give when a random relative at a family gathering says the same thing, you know the one, and clung to my mother’s leg.
She bent down to meet eye level with me and said: “I’m the conductor, Mrs. Nicolosi. My, I remember when your brother Daniel was this little. I used to teach him when he was in the choir school.”
I softened as she said my brother’s name, but I was still hesitant. She turned toward my mother but before she started her conversation with my mother she pointed me in the direction of the choral room. Even though I was till nervous, I let go of my mother’s leg and walked in the direction Mrs. Nicolosi had just pointed. When I walked into the choral room, there were these stair-like things that had three different levels. I learned that they were called risers. I don’t think I had even gotten five feet in through the doorway before another woman walked up to me. She had a name tag that read “Mrs. Jacobs”.
“What is your name?” Mrs. Jacobs asked me as she looked through a list of names.
“Sarah Martin” I told her in a quiet voice.
As she looked through her list she found my name and smiled . “Oh you’re a part one so you’ll be over here.”
She escorted me to the left side of the risers, and I sat down on the back row. Too nervous at the moment to start making friends, I looked all around the room at the colorful and ornate stained glass windows and the high ceilings with golden electric chandeliers that held fake candles. To my right there was a black grand piano so glossy you could see your reflection. A little time later Mrs. Nicolosi came in and rehearsal began. It went by in a whirlwind, and my mother came along as soon as the clock chimed six. I skipped back across sixth street with a smile as wide as the sun and began telling my mother all the things I had done at choir.
“We sung a song about cats! ….and a quarter note is worth one beat and a half note is worth two beats….. but an eight note is worth half a beat…. and the thing the notes are on is called a staff!”
Barely breathing between sentences, I rambled about my experiences that day during the entire car ride home and the entire night. I told my mother how excited I was to go back to choir the following week and that’s when my love of music truly started.
The years went by in many forms: different colored shirts whether they be white, another navy, red, or now black. It went by with more and more languages some much more difficult than others (hello Japanese and Hungarian). It went by with more parts and overall harder pieces. It also went by with new and old faces but the building on 6th street stayed the same.
Wednesdays are calming. I walk across sixth street typically by myself now. I wear my school grade khaki shorts like many other Wednesdays but now I dawn a black polo. One that is still slightly too big for my own good. I walk through the small iron gate and down that small stretch of cobble path until I arrive at the time weathered burgundy door and I type in the passcode that has been the same for so long.
“One-two-one-five-star” I say in my head even though my fingers do all the work for me.
I walk in through the old door and take an immediate left into another room. I hand Mr.Diaz my binder and get checked in. I walk out of the check in room and go to the choral room. My feet know the way so well that I don’t have to think.
“Sarah Martin!” My conductor, Mr.Proctor, shouts enthusiastically as I walk towards the right side of the risers and grab my name tag.
“Mr. P!” I reply as I shoot him some finger guns. I sit down and clip my name tag to the collar of my black polo.
It reads: “Sarah Martin, Alto One”
I’m still on the back row of the risers even though everyone next to me is a foot taller than me. Thankfully I’m an alto and no longer a “part one” because I would struggle to hit some of those high notes we sing. I look to the right of me and see all of my friends and the memories that come along with them. They’re the ones that have frozen their butts off with me in New York, the ones that laughed with me as we ran down the streets of Tallahassee at nine at night because of all the sugar we had just consumed, the ones who have played cards against humanity and other road trip games in the back of the bus, the ones that hugged and cried with me as my entire life was changed, the ones that crawled out on a hotel fire escape with me so that we could get the perfect picture with the best view of downtown Tokyo, and the one that swing danced with me to live jazz music as the Natchez sailed down the Mississippi River in New Orleans. They are all there, every Wednesday, they are there.
If I’m not too busy conversing with my friends, I’ll look around the old choir room like when I was younger. The stained glass windows still reflect the same brilliant colors on the floor during a sunny day. The ceilings are still high and the golden electric chandeliers still have their fake candles, even though some may be missing to the years. Another person sits at its bench but the black piano is still shiny enough to see your reflection. Just like when I learned it when I was eight, a quarter note is still worth one beat.
By Sarah Martin
It was a hot, August day, and I held my mother’s hand as we walked across Sixth Street. I wore my school grade khaki shorts, like many other Thursdays before this one, but this time I dawned a navy blue polo that was slightly too big for my own good. I was as excited, nervous, and energetic as any eight year old could possibly be.
“Now you know that if you need me I’m right across the street?” My mother said to me as she saw my eyes get wide with a nervous look the closer we got to the building.
I squeezed her hand a little harder and lying through my teeth, I told her that I thought I would be okay. It was only a church after all, and I had been in churches my whole life.
We walked through the iron gate that faced sixth street and followed down a stretch of cobble path until we arrived at the burgundy door which stood at the end of the path. Strangely enough, I thought, there was a keypad placed to the left of the door. Not knowing what to do, I looked up at my mother confused. She pressed in the numbers one-two-one-five and then a star.
“One-two-one-five-star?” I asked quietly.
She explained to me and that since we were in the downtown area the lock was there to keep people safe, just incase. I, for the most part, accepted this answer, and we walked inside. How strange, I thought, that a church would have a keypad lock on it but I walked on anyway. As we walked, we were greeted by an older woman with quite a cheerful demeanor.
“My how you’ve grown!” The woman said as she smiled and hugged me.
I gave her the kind of look that you give when a random relative at a family gathering says the same thing, you know the one, and clung to my mother’s leg.
She bent down to meet eye level with me and said: “I’m the conductor, Mrs. Nicolosi. My, I remember when your brother Daniel was this little. I used to teach him when he was in the choir school.”
I softened as she said my brother’s name, but I was still hesitant. She turned toward my mother but before she started her conversation with my mother she pointed me in the direction of the choral room. Even though I was till nervous, I let go of my mother’s leg and walked in the direction Mrs. Nicolosi had just pointed. When I walked into the choral room, there were these stair-like things that had three different levels. I learned that they were called risers. I don’t think I had even gotten five feet in through the doorway before another woman walked up to me. She had a name tag that read “Mrs. Jacobs”.
“What is your name?” Mrs. Jacobs asked me as she looked through a list of names.
“Sarah Martin” I told her in a quiet voice.
As she looked through her list she found my name and smiled . “Oh you’re a part one so you’ll be over here.”
She escorted me to the left side of the risers, and I sat down on the back row. Too nervous at the moment to start making friends, I looked all around the room at the colorful and ornate stained glass windows and the high ceilings with golden electric chandeliers that held fake candles. To my right there was a black grand piano so glossy you could see your reflection. A little time later Mrs. Nicolosi came in and rehearsal began. It went by in a whirlwind, and my mother came along as soon as the clock chimed six. I skipped back across sixth street with a smile as wide as the sun and began telling my mother all the things I had done at choir.
“We sung a song about cats! ….and a quarter note is worth one beat and a half note is worth two beats….. but an eight note is worth half a beat…. and the thing the notes are on is called a staff!”
Barely breathing between sentences, I rambled about my experiences that day during the entire car ride home and the entire night. I told my mother how excited I was to go back to choir the following week and that’s when my love of music truly started.
The years went by in many forms: different colored shirts whether they be white, another navy, red, or now black. It went by with more and more languages some much more difficult than others (hello Japanese and Hungarian). It went by with more parts and overall harder pieces. It also went by with new and old faces but the building on 6th street stayed the same.
Wednesdays are calming. I walk across sixth street typically by myself now. I wear my school grade khaki shorts like many other Wednesdays but now I dawn a black polo. One that is still slightly too big for my own good. I walk through the small iron gate and down that small stretch of cobble path until I arrive at the time weathered burgundy door and I type in the passcode that has been the same for so long.
“One-two-one-five-star” I say in my head even though my fingers do all the work for me.
I walk in through the old door and take an immediate left into another room. I hand Mr.Diaz my binder and get checked in. I walk out of the check in room and go to the choral room. My feet know the way so well that I don’t have to think.
“Sarah Martin!” My conductor, Mr.Proctor, shouts enthusiastically as I walk towards the right side of the risers and grab my name tag.
“Mr. P!” I reply as I shoot him some finger guns. I sit down and clip my name tag to the collar of my black polo.
It reads: “Sarah Martin, Alto One”
I’m still on the back row of the risers even though everyone next to me is a foot taller than me. Thankfully I’m an alto and no longer a “part one” because I would struggle to hit some of those high notes we sing. I look to the right of me and see all of my friends and the memories that come along with them. They’re the ones that have frozen their butts off with me in New York, the ones that laughed with me as we ran down the streets of Tallahassee at nine at night because of all the sugar we had just consumed, the ones who have played cards against humanity and other road trip games in the back of the bus, the ones that hugged and cried with me as my entire life was changed, the ones that crawled out on a hotel fire escape with me so that we could get the perfect picture with the best view of downtown Tokyo, and the one that swing danced with me to live jazz music as the Natchez sailed down the Mississippi River in New Orleans. They are all there, every Wednesday, they are there.
If I’m not too busy conversing with my friends, I’ll look around the old choir room like when I was younger. The stained glass windows still reflect the same brilliant colors on the floor during a sunny day. The ceilings are still high and the golden electric chandeliers still have their fake candles, even though some may be missing to the years. Another person sits at its bench but the black piano is still shiny enough to see your reflection. Just like when I learned it when I was eight, a quarter note is still worth one beat.