A few weeks ago, I was treated to the spectacle of a small-town elementary school holiday concert. At one point, all the K-3rd graders assembled on the stage for what was billed as a body percussion performance of the Russian Dance from the Nutcracker. This amounted to about 120 kids between the ages of 5 and 9, clapping, snapping, and gesturing in a very rough sketch of synchronization, EXCEPT…
Except for the one boy, in the exact center of the front row. He wore a gray shirt, a gray vest, and gray pants tucked into a tall pair of Xtratuf deck boots (this is coastal Oregon after all). Above all this was a festive red bow tie; above that was the slicked-back hair, the furrowed brow, the impassive expression of a six-year-old Boris Karloff. As everyone moved all around him, he stood absolutely still, one solitary fixed point in a swaying, stomping, fidgeting universe, glancing sometimes left, sometimes right, sometimes out at the audience, always with the absolute certainty that the world had gone mad.
[#]Oregon #PNW #SmallTownHijinks
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