Our Musical Street

I can't hold a note, let alone carry a song. I have NO sense of timing, so keeping rhythm is out. And I have 10 left thumbs, so playing any instrument is near impossible.

All of which matters, because my family is musical. Even the cat sings better than I can. Our neighbours are musical. Dash it all, our whole street is musical. It might be called "Nepean Sea Road" officially, but everyone here fondly refers to it as Our Musical Street.

So, naturally, when the Resident Welfare Association decided to raise funds for new equipment for the playground, the fundraiser was to be --- yes, yes -- musical.

An evening of melodic and lyrical delights, to please the ear, warm the heart, uplift the soul and add to the coffers.

Everyone was doing something. Everyone, including 2-year-old Ronny, who was to sing the modern version of "Jack and Jill" and eighty-nine year old Grandpa (everyone called him Grandpa, on our street) who said, with twinkling eyes, that he'd 'do a number that would make the ladies blush'.

Everyone except yours truly.

I hadn't volunteered and everybody had thought that was wise of me and not forced me to volunteer. I was helping backstage with whatever I could, but it didn't feel the same somehow.

So when my cousin Parul came on a flying visit, I confided the whole dilemma to her. Parul is the brains of the family, she can solve any problem for anyone.

"Earn money through music ..." she mused. "Let me see now."

I watched her face as she absorbed my worries and turned them over in her agile brain. Then, I saw her frown disappear. A spark came into her eyes. She smiled. She laughed.

"Earn money through music! You'll earn more than anyone else!" So saying, she held me close and whispered in my ear, so that NOBODY else could possibly overhear.

"But -- " I stammered.

Then, the simplicity of her scheme sank in and I guffawed, too.

"What are you two laughing about?" came Mom's voice. "Not up to any tricks, are you?"

"No, Mom, just planning the fundraiser," I yelled back.

We heard a distict, cynical 'Hmmm" from her, but she didn't probe further.

The day dawned.

Everyone was at the Town Hall, cleaning, decorating, arranging mics and speakers, putting up posters, setting up food stalls and generally creating a lot of organised chaos.

Parul had gone back home, but she had been texting, and she called and said, "Don't back out of it now!" and I promised her I wouldn't.

I was brave.

I was going to put her plan in action.

I went up to the group putting up the posters outside the gate.

"It is now my turn to raise funds through music," I declared to them.

Then, I began to sing.

All of them dropped whatever they were holding. Posters, glue-pots, string, scissors and a step-ladder fell to the floor.

"STOP!" they pleaded. "Stop singing!"

"I'll stop singing when you contribute your bit of money to the cause," I replied, grinning. "You're contributing your talent, now let's have some money as well."

And I continued to yodel.

Immediately, hands went into pockets and purses and coins and notes were thrust at me. "Anything, anything, only stop singing, please!"

I counted up the money and wrote it in my little notebook. I'd carried a wallet for the purpose and I put the money in.

Smiling, I moved to the unsuspecting folks setting up the ticketing counter just inside the hall. I repeated my performance. There were more pleas to stop, and more money.

The show was a resounding success. The hall was full of cheering audience. All the performers, age 2 to 89, sang brilliantly and were loudly applauded. Four of them got standing ovations. Happy people gave extra donations.

But my little wallet held the single biggest contribution. I had earned the most money through my music.