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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