beat it

Tolliver's been practicing the drums like he has a test coming up.

A few weeks ago, at the local library's music on the lawn series, the drummer performing with that Tuesday night's band noticed Tollie's interest and, in between sets, handed him an extra pair of sticks. Day made, right there.

The next day Tollie asked to find some drum sticks on the computer and buy them.  We did.

He pulls pots out of the bottom cabinet, props the biggest lid on top of an upside down mixing bowl to make a "high hat."  Gets to work.  He repeats a song he calls Salsa Beat.  It is very loud.  It is also, using a fairly loose definition, a legit song.  It sounds mostly the same each time he plays it, a consistent rhythm with alternating hands and impressive technique.

He would play from the moment he woke till bedtime, except that other people in our house like to sleep, and quiet is complicated by night shift rotation.  Evening is good for percussion practice, but even after a lengthy post-dinner jam session, it's hard to quit.  Eventually Tollie resigns himself to the end of his day, climbs the stairs and crawls in bed.  He leans back against the pillow and locks hands behind his head to relax, the same way humans have done for ages.  Except his fists are holding tight to his new blue drum sticks.