MARCHING BAND SOAKS UP A LOT OF TIME: three two-hour long practices a week. On autumn Saturdays, entire days go to football games or marching competitions. A new responsibility was added during her junior year as she was made section leader of the clarinets. Add that to her challenging class work within her major and twenty-four hours in a day seems to be pushing it. It's the music that helps her through it all, “Though some of my other classes might have suffered because of marching band.”

Then, her grandfather moved near by. Three-to-four mornings or nights a week, Emilie drives a few miles to visit her grandfather. It was a surprise, when her grandfather moved to Yorktown from Pennsylvania, this after after his wife died after 64 years of marriage and surviving two bouts of cancer. Being alone and in a strange city is not easy for anyone, especially someone 89 years old. Emilie confesses that she’s “not giving him all that he needs, but she’s trying.” She'll be visiting him tomorrow morning, starting her day before most college students would even dream about being up. Today, though, it's more band practice.

It's a Wednesday afternoon in early October. I meet with Emilie on campus outside of the Ferguson theaters at 3:55 p.m. for the beginning of marching practice. The sun is bright, a cool breeze isin the air. At 4 p.m. sharp, she gathers her clarinet players’ attention and starts them on their scales and warm-up exercises. She stands in the middle of the circle, hands clapping to keep time while working on “Cool,” “Mambo” and “Maria” from the musical “West Side Story.”

“Play with confidence!” Emilie says several times. The players in the section are noticeably tired, having endured a long Saturday road trip to Shenandoah University for a performance there. The band returned to CNU at around 2:30 a.m. Emilie’s steady “clap, clap, clap” seems to sting her tired section. Two F-16 fighter jets roar overhead, drowning out the collective sound of the time being kept and the music being played. The music and clapping did not stop because of the jets. Emilie plowed right on through.

The members of the saxophone section practice are just down the way from the clarinets. They, too, are working on “Cool.” They have a very smooth, jazzy beat to their part. Lenny Pistritto, the saxophone section leader, stands in front of the section, head down and hands clapping. He’s wearing a camouflage Chevy Trucks hat that has some of his curly black hair poking out the back, a beige-colored hooded sweatshirt that has NYC ’08 on the front in a very elaborate print, as well as faded Levi’s blue jeans and dirty, white Nike sneakers.

Lenny keeps the 4-4 time signature perfectly while the section goes along in the song. There’s an obvious rest at this point, with the saxophones standing still, waiting for their time to come in.

Then, all of a sudden, “blat!” A sour note, a mistake—like a duck quack.

Laughter ensues and all composure is lost. Even serious Lenny breaks into a laugh along with the section.

Down with the clarinets, Emilie is in tune with the music, looking intense. No smile. No laugh.

Lenny looks at his watch. “Good enough,” he says, “we only got ten minutes until marching anyway. Take ten.” The saxophones are quickly put on their respective cases scattered along brick walk.

Emilie is still clapping time with the clarinets.

 

LATER THAT NIGHT, Emilie’s cell phone buzzes on her desk. She looks from her computer screen at the phone.

“1 new text message,” reads the display.

She sighs. Her eyes are red and sore. The computer screen in front of her, with graphs and writing and numbers referring to her biology lab, illuminates her face.

She opens the phone. The friendly text asks if she is able to hang out. She closes the phone and sets it back on her nightstand to charge.

12:30 a.m. on a Friday. Her away message reads “sooo tired. Time for bed.”

 

MY ALARM CLOCK YELLS its wake up call at 7 a.m. on the Tuesday before Halloween.  I’m in a daze, but get ready to meet Emilie anyway. This is about three hours earlier than I had gotten up all semester long. I only get up this early if I absolutely have to.

Emilie had told me to meet her at 7:25 a.m. to start our little adventure. She walks out of her dorm a few minutes late, messing with her hair, a smile on her face.

"Ugh, my hair is being ridiculous this morning!" she says, as if it is perfectly normal to be awake at this hour.

I'm still half asleep. Emilie is obviously very used to being up this early.

We get into her forest green Jeep Grand Cherokee and we're off. She tunes the radio to some talk show on an alternative station.

"OK. There are a few things I have to warn you about my grandfather," she says as we hit I-64. "First, he is really anal about table manners. Don't be surprised if while you're eating he tries to correct you. He's done that to me before."

"OK."

"Second, you'll have to take off your hat inside. Make sure you do, or else he will take it off for you and make a big deal about it."

"You're going to have to remind me of that." I almost never take my hat off.

“Oh. My, god! I almost forgot. Do not, DO NOT, talk about politics! I love the man to death, but he gets on my nerves sometimes, especially about that.”

She seems finished with the checklist as we pull into Colonial Harbor Assisted Living. It looks like a small Sheraton Hotel from the outside, complete with the long overhang to protect guests unloading belongings in the rain and double sliding doors in the lobby.

Emilie parks the car and looks at me. “Hat.”

Emilie spots her grandfather waiting for her in the lobby.

Mr. Bouffard says, “Hi sweetheart,” hugging his granddaughter and kissing both cheeks.

“Good morning,” he says, turning to me and extending his hand. He had a hearty handshake as Emilie says, “Grandpa, this is Billy.”

Emilie takes care in telling her grandfather the events of the past few days. She has plenty to do back on campus, I knew, an endless list. Someone else might imagine now that her time could be better spent. Not Emilie. She was all about her grandfather. She was living in the moment. Breakfast is up next.

“Do you have time to come up to the apartment?” her grandfather asks after we had finish eating, about forty minutes later.

“Sure do!” Emilie says, cheerfully.

After a visit to his apartment, and dropping off an old mirror at the thrift store for him, Emilie drops me at my apartment. Her day, I know, is far from over. Curious, I check her away message. "Sleeeepy," it says

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