I had purchased a
talking metronome while I was attending a conference in New York
for music teachers. Before my son and I boarded our flight home, I
hefted my carry-on bag onto the security-check conveyor belt. The
guard's eyes widened as he watched the monitor. He asked what I
had in the bag, then slowly pulled out the six-by-three-inch black
box covered with dials and switches. Other travelers, sensing
trouble, vacated the area.
"A metronome," I replied weakly, as my son cringed in
embarrassment. "It's a talking metronome," I insisted.
"Look, I'll show you." I took the box and flipped a
switch, realizing that I had no idea how it worked, "One...
two... three... four," it said. Everyone breathed a sigh of
relief.
As we gathered our belongings, my son whispered, "Aren't you
glad it didn't go 'four... three... two... one...?"
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