Artillery Park in Quebec City

The streets are like winding through a little piece of Europe. The lanes are narrow, designed for cars smaller than ours, and the streets have steep angles and sudden bends. It takes a wide left turn and a pass through one of the three fortress gates to get to the historic grounds where the kids will play. This trip is one of the more chaotic, the group getting separated by city lights and knowing we would have to find our own parking once we dropped off out drummers, fifers and guardsmen. I stuck to the back bumper of Frenchy's car, since he knew his way around and I didn't want to get lost.

The two of us climbed the steep hill to the place where the kids were to assemble and pulled off to the side, into spaces clearly marked no parking. It was across from the Hippocampe a place that looked like a historic pub or Inn, although the rainbow flag in front indicated it might have been something else these days. This kids got out of out cars and Frenchy stepped out to make sure everything was arranged with the people running the place. I stayed with the cars in the event the tow trucks came.

Frenchy beat the tow trucks and we started looking for the black Ps in green circles, which indicated parking. Up and down, turning right and left we wound around the block right next to the starting area. We turned down a street, with steps sticking into the narrow road and doors much closer to the pavement on one side than the other. The kind you see in National Geographic with a dirty kid and a dog looking at you from the stoop. Then, as if dropped from another place, we found a parking garage. It was a small entry and all the levels were beneath the ground, but it was manageable. As we walked out, I thought about how the Flex looked like a grown man in a children's dress up clothes, so tight was the space it was squeezed into.

When we got back, all the kids were there getting into uniform and I actually got to look at the space we were in. On one side of the street a grassy section dropped down, revealing a portion of the city and the hills beyond. Where the kids were was a long path with two long building on either side. To the right was a place with air conditioning, chairs and pop, but the outside looked a little more like a barn. To the left, cannons lay outside of the long buildings. Chains and hooks and horseshoes indicated it was either a sort of blacksmith shop or a warehouse. Even without going in, history radiated from these things.

I could see the red shirt of Jim at the far end of the path, he was looking at a little area, talking to Brad and Matt and Bridgette. From here, we couldn't see what the space looked like, but it meant he was planning how to make use of the space. This path would provide a dramatic entrance, I thought, the sound reverberating off the buildings and the approached of the uniformed corps members would draw all kinds of attention. As it was, the kids kept having their warm ups interrupted by people taking pictures and asking them questions. This place was full of promise.

The director and others return. Bridgette calls the corps to order and they will move out shortly. The guest, who don't know what is going on gather around. They point at the banner, which reads Plymouth Fife and Drum Corps. They, like the parents, feel the electric nature of anticipation. The parents, though, know to move up, to the place of the performance, rather than try to navigate this narrow path beside the marching.

It is a small area, very small. It is clear there is no room for the guard feature. There is a small flat area with rock wall terraces up the back, which lead to steps, which appear to take you to the top of the wall. The other side of the little area, has a black iron fence separate the little bushes and the dip down not the bowl from the crowd walking between the historic area we came from and the numerous tiny shops and restaurants which ran the other direction. It was a perfect intersection.

The drums stopped just outside of the mini arena, because it was too tight and steep to march in normally. Then for the next few moments, section by section, the kids were arranged up the terrace. When they were done, it looked like it was preparation for a photograph. People just watched as the kids stood at attention, waiting for the signal.

We could see the faces of all the kids, except for Bridgette, the drum major, who had her back to us. Jim explained what we would be doing, in French, and when he finished, with the drop of the mace, they began. The crowd swelled around. People in costume, from the historic area came to see, the girls selling ticket came out of her booth to watch, the people who had watched us warm up, hung on the fence. You could see the hands of the drummers, every movement of the muskets and swords, every serious face as the kids bowed in respect for the soloists.

At some point in these performances, though, you stop watching the kids and you start watching the audience. You can't but smile at the stranger snapping photo after phono, or the guy who strains to hold his arm trying to video tape the whole thing. You love hearing people marvel about who these kids are and how good they are. Artillery Park, this tiny spot we played had all of that and applause and a people who waited just to be sure they caught the last note.