A Different Kind of Concert
    
I knew everything had to be perfect, that I couldn’t let down the high expectations of my customers. I knew the months of practice I spent preparing for this concert. I remembered a moment, a couple weeks ago, when I had felt like smashing my ukulele against the wall when I couldn’t perfect a chord change. There was nothing hours of nonstop practice couldn’t fix.

I put on my best dress and tied my hair into a tight bun. I slung the bag that held my ukulele onto my shoulder and jumped into my car.
    
I was about halfway down the road when I heard a peculiar hissing noise. I pulled over and noticed one of my tires was flat. I called a tow truck, but I knew it wouldn’t arrive until it was too late. There was no way I was going to make it in time for the concert. Would my band have to go on without me? Would the performance get called off?
    
I was just about to despair when I heard the sound of music drifting through the air. I looked over and saw someone playing the dulcimer by the side of the road. I had plenty of time to spare, so I walked over and put a coin in the musician’s hat.
    
She looked up when she saw the coin. “I see you have an instrument, too; you want to join me?”
    
I hesitated. “No thanks, I’ll just listen.” I was a professional; I didn’t have time to waste.
    
But soon the musician began to play a new song on her dulcimer. I recognized it at once. It was “Oh Susannna,” the first song I had learned to play. I got out my ukulele and began to strum softly, playing the song I had played so many years ago. The chords I had practiced so many times rang out loud and clear.

Before long, people started to gather, hearing our music. They began to dance and smile, hearing the lively tune. I let my hair down and began to smile myself. This was a different audience than the one I would have had at the concert, one full of happiness and joy.

I loved playing at the concert hall, but I had forgotten what it was like to play purely for fun, to see people enjoying my music, and enjoying it myself. Up on the big stage, I could never see the faces of the audience. The only light would be the fluorescent spotlight. At my concerts, it was always silent, except for the occasional muffled cough or the shifting of fancy apparel in the seats. But now the streets were filled with the sound of clapping and laughing, cheering and playful conversation.

 I began to remember why I had started playing, for the joy of it. I must have forgotten that as my life progressed, and it came back to me as I played. Time seemed to fly, and soon the dulcimer player began to pack up.

Eventually the tow truck arrived, and when I finally made it to the concert hall, the performance was already over. Backstage the rest of the band was cleaning up. One of my friends looked up.

“Stella! What happened to you?” he asked. “We missed you at the concert!”

“It’s a long story,” I replied, proceeding to help my friends pack up after the show.

I was disappointed I missed my concert, but it taught me something I hadn’t known before. When I played on the street, I was playing a different kind of concert, but it was a concert nonetheless.