As humans, we automatically record firsts: our baby’s first steps, our child’s first day of school, our first apartment. In baseball, a fan can tell you where and when a rookie hit his first home run in the majors. We gravitate to­wards firsts.

Lasts are harder. With a handful of exceptions – the last day of school, the last day of work upon retirement – lasts blur together. When was the last time that baby both crawled and walked before giving up crawling entirely? When was the last time that child called you “Mommy” before switching perma­nently to “Mom”? When was the last time a beloved elderly family member with dementia truly knew who you were? Try as we might, we tend to know at some point afterwards that we sailed past that last into now.

I marked a last last month that I realized afterwards was a last, although I didn’t know it at the time.

My husband Warren is the exec­u­tive director of our local symphony. (He is also its timpanist, but that’s a story for another time.) In mid-May, the orchestra held a con­cert for some 900 fourth graders from all over our county. This con­cert, part of the Carnegie Hall national "Link Up" pro­gram, is the finale of the fourth grade music curriculum in several of our local school districts. The students learn to sing and play on their recorders many of the pieces featured in the con­cert. You have not lived until you have heard 900 fourth graders playing Beethoven’s “Ode to Joy” on a song flute. Our fourth grade con­cert is loud, energetic, and joyful. I wouldn’t miss it for the world.

After the con­cert, I went up on stage to help pick up. There were stray water bottles left behind by some musicians. There was the rehearsal clock still on the organ where the conductor could see it. I helped the librarian collect music from the stands.

When you are married to the exec­u­tive director, you are married to the symphony.

Because the con­cert was a midday, weekday con­cert, Warren was short on volunteers for stage crew. I pitched in to help "strike the stage."

To "strike the stage" means to empty it and reset it to bare and empty. There are percussion in­stru­ments to cover, pack, and roll or carry into the hall to be transported. There is the music cart to roll into the hall for loading along with the percussion. There are music stands to go on the stand rack and folding chairs to go on the chair rack.

I helped fold the chairs and lift them onto the chair rack. I was not the only person helping load chairs, and the work went quickly. Maybe I folded and hung 15 chairs. Maybe. Maybe I spent 20 min­utes before we were done with the chairs. Maybe.

I was aching by the time I got home 30 min­utes later. I was hurting so much I took two acetaminophen (Tylenol, paracetamol) in the late afternoon, some­thing I rarely do. I knew I was exhausted beyond exhausted that evening and took more acetaminophen before going to sleep.

My body went on strike the next day.

Sore? Holy moly! My upper arms (the chair rack had an upper level and a lower level so I had to lift the chairs to rack them). My hands (from folding each chair and carrying it to the rack). My quads (from the lifting). Every muscle screamed at me. I even had small hematomas on my shoulders and upper chest.

More acetaminophen.

I went to work the next day, barely able to get out of my car once I arrived. I man­aged to work a few hours before pain and chills drove me away.

More acetaminophen. A whole lot of downtime.

I could not walk up and down the stairs or even get in and out of a chair, soft or hard, without yelping.

When Warren came home that night and assessed my con­di­tion, he ex­pressed displeasure that I had helped strike the stage the day before, ap­pre­cia­tive though he was of the extra help when he was short­handed.

I nodded, then said “That is the very last time I will strike a stage.”

So that was a last. I didn’t know it at the time as I folded and hung those chairs, but I knew it the day after. My last time ever striking a stage.

I’ll still help in other ways. I’ll help collect music, I’ll help pick up after the musicians. I’ll help police the con­cert hall after con­certs and pick up stray pro­grams, forgotten umbrellas, and used tissues. (Seri­ous­ly, who uses a tissue and then drops it on the floor, even un­in­ten­tion­ally? A few of our con­cert­goers, apparently.) I will help in a myriad of ways, but no more striking the stage.

It was my last strike. Ever. And that, dear readers, marks the end of an era.