The Most Important Question

Last week, Mr. Wilson, my like-a-dad-to-me-junior-high-school-band-director, said, “I was wondering this morning what people would say if you asked them what the most important question was that anyone ever asked them.”

“I know what your question was,” I said.

“Yep,” he said.  “My mother handed me my brother’s old horn and said, ‘Think you’d like to try to learn to play this trumpet and be in the band?’”

“Changed your life,” I said. 

“Yep,” he said.

He took that proffered trumpet, joined the band, and learned to play the devil out of that old horn.

Mr. Wilson’s mother’s question gave him friends he would have never otherwise met, a sense of belonging to something greater than himself, and a band director who became a father to him just like he became a father to me. 

Her question gave him direction to his life, a career he loved, an avocation as well as a vocation, and a way to serve. 

Her question led him to a position of leadership in his faith community: at almost 80, he’s still the Cantor and Director of Music at his church.

Her question even led him to his beloved wife of more than fifty years (a cute little bassoon player who became mother to his seven musical children).

Because he became a composer and arranger, the question that his mother asked Mr. Wilson lives on; both of the bands I play in have performed his compositions this year. 

Because he is a teacher, the question that his mother asked him lives on: he taught music to countless youngsters, a gift that has enriched the tapestries of their lives. 

Because he is a band director, the question that his mother asked him lives on; a thousand students, of whom I am one, grew up to be who they are in part because of who he taught them to be in lessons learned in the band hall, on the marching field, and hanging around in his office after school. 

So what’s the most important question anyone ever asked you? 

I don’t know what the most important question is that anyone ever asked me, but I do know this: the most important question that anyone ever asked my like-a-dad-to-me-junior-high-school band director- Think you’d like to learn to play this trumpet and be in the band?- turned out to be a question that changed my life and made me who I am today.

Thanks, Mr. Wilson’s mom.  We never met, but your question to your son changed my life.

Lessons My Band Director Taught Me: #3 Grow a Pair

Before the fall of my eighth grade year, I believed in a lot of principles that I didn't have the courage to do anything about.  My Just-an-Old-Country-Lawyer father was committed to civil rights, and he taught me and my brother to value justice for ALL people. But he didn't teach me how to put those principles into practice. 

I don't know whether or not our father taught my brother how to actually stand up for what he believed in, but he didn't teach me how to, perhaps because I was a girl.  Girls were supposed to be seen and not heard.  Girls were supposed to be nice and not make waves.  I know this because my mother told me so.  Repeatedly.

So until the fall of my eighth grade year, I was nice.  I had principles to which I was committed, but I lacked the know how- or the courage- to do anything about them.

Then came The Day That Everything Changed.

My junior high band director, Mr. Phillip Wilson, had reserved the football field for first period so we could practice our half-time show for the game that night.  The rest of the week, we practiced on the old marching practice field north of the football field.  But we always practiced on the football field on game day.

When we marched out to the field, we were met by a large PE class with their fearsome teacher and monstrous student teacher.  Mr. Wilson politely told the PE teachers that we had reserved the field for that morning.  The fearsome teacher refused to leave and told the students not to give up the field to the band.

Mr. Wilson stormed back across the field to us like MacArthur, Montgomery, Marshall, and Patton rolled into one. Face crimson with the little patches of white he got when he was mightily riled, he shouted, "People, you are the Marshall Junior High School Band!  This field is reserved for you this morning.  Those people refuse to yield it to us.  This field is ours, and we are going to take it!"

We woodwind players stared wide-eyed.  The brass players squared their shoulders.  The drummers whispered, "Hot Damn!" 

Then General Wilson said, "People, you are to march straight ahead.  Do not look to the right or left.  Do not step to the right or left.  If those people don't move, you are NOT going to march around them.  You are going to march right over them.  Do you understand me?"

We understood.

Mr.Wilson signaled the drum major who counted us off.  Then the snare drums started to roll, the bass drum shook the earth, the brasses straightened the pipes, and we woodwinds shrieked until we split the heavens. The irresistible force began marching toward the immovable object. 

In an instant, I understood what I was part of.  My fear evaporated, and I realized that this was a watershed moment for me.  I not only believed in justice, but I was going to act on that belief for the first time. I was going to stand shoulder to shoulder with my band of brothers and sisters and confront the enemy.  I was brave.

As we marched across the field, the PE students scattered, and even the fierce old PE teacher headed for the sidelines.  But the monstrous, murder-in-the-eyes student teacher wasn't going to move and squared off with us. So our feisty little trombone player followed orders and plowed right into that immovable object.  Then he stomped hard on the foot that was in his path and kept moving forward.  He was the hero of the hour.

That day, Mr. Wilson taught the entire band that we could fight injustice.  That we could be brave. 

That moment was such a hallmark in my life that I have fought abusive authority ever since.  That moment was the reason that decades later a respected colleague told me, "You've got brass balls, you know that?" 

Yes, I knew that.  Because I earned those brass balls on the football field at Marshall Junior High School as part of the Marshall Junior High School Band.  I earned them because my band director, Mr. Wilson, taught us that we had brass balls by expecting us to act like we did. He taught us courage.

So I thank you, Mr. Wilson, for what you did for all of us.

But I thank you especially for what you did for me.  You took me, an eighth grader who believed in justice, but who was too scared to do anything about it.  And you gave me brass balls that have lasted for the rest of my life. 

And for that, Sir, I am eternally grateful.





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Lessons My Band Director Taught Me: # 2 Never Be a Prima Dona

My junior high band director, Mr. Phillip Wilson, grew up in the moving business.  Founded by his late father, Wilson Transfer and Storage in Santa Fe, New Mexico, is still family-run nearly a century later. Mr. Wilson, who gave up his share of the business to be a band director, told me about one of the family's notable customers.

“When I was a little boy, we had three enormously rich and important clients: Mrs. Cyrus McCormick of International Harvester, Mrs. Frank Rand of Remington Rand/Sperry Rand fame, and Mrs. David Lippincott of the eponymous publishing company.

“All three were lovely women, but Mrs. McCormick and Mrs. Rand always came to the transfer to conduct their affairs in their chauffeur-driven limousines.  Mrs. Lippincott, who was probably the richest of the three, drove herself in her Studebaker.

“Once our foreman asked Mrs. Lippincott why she didn’t have a chauffeur drive her around in a limo.  She said, ‘I like my Studebaker because no one else likes them.’”  Then he added, “Mrs. Lippincott never gave a hoot about what other people thought.”

 Then Mr. Wilson told me a story.

“Because our house was on the property in front of the company headquarters and warehouses, we had an enormous driveway where the moving vans could come and go.  Addresses were not clearly marked on houses in those days, so taxi drivers would come to our house to find out where someone’s address was.  As long as they came to the door and knocked, we were happy to tell them what they needed to know.  But invariably while we were eating dinner, a taxi driver would pull up in the driveway and blast on his horn.  He expected us to come out of our house, go to his car window, and tell him what he wanted to know.

“Whenever that happened, one of my big brothers or sisters would stick their head out the back door and holler, ‘We don’t offer curb service!’  If the taxi driver got out of his car and came to the door, we were happy to help him.

“I was a little pitcher with big ears, so one day when I was about six, Mrs. Lippincott drove up to the loading dock in her Studebaker and honked her horn, I stuck my head out of the warehouse and hollered, ‘We don’t offer curb service!’

“The foreman across the yard came running as fast as his little short, fat legs could carry him scolding me all the way.  ‘That’s Mrs. Lippincott!’ he cried.  ‘We don’t say that to Mrs. Lippincott!  She can honk her horn for us to come out any time she wants!’

“Then Mrs. Lippincott climbed out of her car, and the foreman fell all over himself apologizing.”

“’Nonsense,’ said Mrs. Lippincott to the foreman.  “The child is right.  I am a perfectly able-bodied woman capable of getting out of the car to ask for assistance.  Don’t you dare scold him.  Leave him alone.’

“That endeared Mrs. Lippincott to me forever after,” said my band director.  “She was immeasurably rich, yet she was humble and never expected any special treatment.”

The point of this lesson my band director taught me?  You may be a first chair, but be an humble first chair.  Don’t expect special treatment and never be a Prima Dona.

Thanks, Mr. Wilson, for that life lesson.  Thanks, too, Mrs. Lippincott.  Rest in peace.

 

Finding Your Do-er: What a First Grader and His Teacher Taught Me About Retirement

Mrs. Moss, age 40, became a brand-new first-grade teacher in the elementary school where I had grown up.  In fact, she taught in the same classroom where I had attended first-grade, so I know that classroom, Room 4, well. 

The west end of Room 4 shared a boys' restroom with Room 5; the east end of Room 4 shared a girls' restroom with Room 3.  The classrooms and restrooms were like links in a chain.  By going from restroom to classroom to restroom, you could travel the entire wing without ever setting foot into the hall.

I've never seen another school with toilet facilities like this one, but having been a first grade teacher, I can attest to the handiness of the architecture.  A teacher could closely supervise the children using the toilet while still supervising the children who were at their desks.  She never had to leave the classroom to check up on someone who was ill or  lingering in the restroom.

One day, Mrs. Moss allowed six-year-old James to go to the toilet during class.  A minute later, an agonizing wail erupted from behind the boys' restroom door.  Good Lord, thought Mrs. Moss.  He's caught himself in his zipper!  She flew to the door, threw it open, and cast herself down beside the sobbing child to try to help extricate his tender flesh.

But nothing was stuck in the zipper.  Instead, James was grabbing desperately inside of his open zipper and wailing.

"What's wrong?" Mrs. Moss asked, and James threw himself into her arms.

"My do-er!"  he cried.  "I can't find my do-er!"

"What?" she asked, gently removing his arms from around her neck to try to assess the problem.

"I can't find my do-er!" he sobbed again, pointing to his zipper.  Then Mrs. Moss understood.  She unbuttoned James's pants and lowered them to his ankles.

"Sweetheart," she soothed, "You've got your underpants on backward."

Since I retired, I've thought a lot about James and Mrs. Moss.  About how terrified you feel when you think you've lost your do-er. About how important finding it is when you retire.

The president of my concert band told me recently that he had taken up playing percussion after he retired.  "I'd had a busy life as a Lutheran pastor," he said, "And suddenly I had nothing to do.  I didn't know how to fill my days, so I decided that I'd better find something to do.  I found band, and it made all the difference." 

A lovely retired nurse in the adult beginners band where I teach woodwinds told me the same thing.  She didn't know what to do with herself when she retired from years in neonatal intensive care.  Then she found New Horizons Band.  An experienced pianist, she decided she wanted to learn to play clarinet.  Her do-er went into high gear, and she's thriving.

People at the humane society thrift shop where I volunteer have told me their stories: after retirement, they didn't know what to do with themselves.  They felt lost. Worse, they felt Unmotivated. Unmotivated to learn anything new, like how to play pickleball or the tuba. Unmotivated to improve talents they'd always dabbled with, like writing or singing. Unmotivated to make the world a better place, like volunteering at the food bank with their church group, or raising money for shelter dogs with a bunch of like-minded strangers who might become friends. They couldn't find their do-ers. 

Then they'd met someone who did work at the thrift shop and suggested they try it, say one four-hour shift a month.  Or maybe two.  They'd tried it, liked it, and had found something to do.  Once they found something to do, they got motivated.  They found their do-ers.

So this is what James-the-First-Grader and Mrs. Moss taught me.  Sometimes when you think you've lost your do-er, it's still there. You just have to know where to look for it. 

That might mean having to tell someone else that you're afraid you've lost your do-er. That might mean asking them how they found their do-ers, and asking them to help you find yours.  And that might mean following their advice, even if they tell you to drop your trousers, step out of your underpants, and turn them around the right way.

Lessons My Band Director Taught Me: #1 Be Careful What You Ask For

My junior high band director, Mr. Wilson, taught me more life lessons than anybody else ever did.  One lesson he taught me was:  Be sure you want what you ask for.   You just might get it.

Fifty years ago, Mr. Wilson was forced to deal with a narcissistic cheerleader coach.  Mrs. Gundershoot thought the school existed to serve her, and through her largesse, the cheerleaders, and through them, the football team. 

Mrs. Gundershoot didn’t politely ask people to do things.  She demanded it.   You didn’t demand things of my band director.  If you did, you might get exactly what you asked for—on HIS terms.

One day, Mrs. Gundershoot marched up to Mr. Wilson and demanded, “We have a pep rally in the gym in a half hour. I want your band in there, and I want them to make a LOT OF NOISE.  Got it?  Your band’s job is to get the kids all riled up by making a lot of noise.”  Out she marched.

Now first of all, music is not noise.  Music is the antithesis of noise.  Even music by Paul Hindemith. Music has structure, rules, logic.  Music is mathematically beautiful.  Even music that sounds like cacophony has an underlying structure. 

Telling my band director that his band is supposed to make a lot of noise was equivalent to telling Gordon Ramsay, “Put some crap on the table.”  Chef Ramsay wouldn’t take kindly to that, and when you came to the table, you’d find a steaming pile of horse manure garnished with a sprig of parsley.  Crap you want? Crap you get.

Noise you want? Noise you get.

Mr. Wilson rounded up his band.  He had an enormous brass section that year: 16 trumpets; 9 trombones; 4 baritones; and 4 tubas.  Big boys.  Most of them ninth-graders.  We’re talking HEAVY on brass.

“Ladies and gentlemen,” he said, “Mrs. Gundershoot wants noise at the assembly.  She told us to ‘make a lot of noise.’ We are going to give her what she wants.”  Then, “Brass, I want you to STRAIGHTEN THE TUBES.”   Translation: “Blow so hard that you unfurl the twists and turns in your horn.”  All 33 brass players grinned from ear to ear.  “Oh, yeah.”

The he said, “Play March Grandioso.”  The band understood the subtext.  Think about the name.  March.  Grandioso.  March Grandioso is a Sherman tank.  The idea of straightening the pipes on March Grandioso is the equivalent of Patton blasting his way through Bastogne at the Battle of the Bulge.

The band entered the gym and Mr. Wilson lined them up at attention in block formation.  The drum major gave a roll off.  And the room exploded in sound.  Kids in the bleachers shrieked and covered their ears. 

Mrs. Gundershoot ran up to the choir teacher and screamed, “That band is too Goddamn loud!” 

The choir teacher yelled back, “You told him you wanted the band to make a bunch of noise!  Well, you got it!”

That’s when the fun started.  The first gym light popped and went out.  The band played louder.  The second gym light exploded.  The twists and turns on the trumpets began to unfurl.  The third gym light popped.  The drummers pounded till they split their drumheads. The fourth gym light went out.  By the time the tubas finished hurling their grenades, the filaments of 16 gym lights had exploded, and Mrs. Gundershoot was purple with rage.

I don’t know whether the football team won or lost that game. I do know that nobody learned anything at school that day except that the band could blow 16 lights out in the gym.

So what was the lesson that Mr. Wilson taught me from that story? The Story of The Day the Band Blew 16 Lights Out of the Gym Ceiling? Be careful about what you ask for.  You just might get it.