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. A we gathered our belongings, my son whispered, "Aren't you glad it didn't go 'four ... three ... two ... one ... '?"
