Begin at the beginning

            “Begin at the beginning.”

            Back when I worked for a newspaper in western Kentucky, one of my fellow staff writers, Garth Gamblin, often interviewed people at his desk. Without fail, they would come into the newsroom, sit down and ask, “All right, where do I start?”

            “Begin at the beginning,” Garth always replied.

            Such simple advice for telling a story or recalling life's events.

            Of course, it means finding the starting point for the story. Yet, as Garth's interviewees revealed, they instinctively knew where to start. It's as if the narrative storytelling style we all learned as children becomes a homing device, enabling us to zero in on the exact point where it all began.

            Or, at least, where it begins in our minds.

            My impetus for writing this blog is simple: I write. Writing isn't just what I do; it can also be a form of therapy because it enables me to express what I often cannot say verbally.

            Which leads to a confession: I am using the blank page as the mental/emotional equivalent of a core dump.

            I don't claim to offer pearls of wisdom. I am not a guru. I don't have a corner on the market of insights into the human condition.

            What I do have is my own perspective on life's events, and the ability to write about them.

            A recurring theme in my life is anger, and my inability to deal with it. Not just in terms of expressing my own anger (which I don't do very well), but also handling others' anger. Anger is a natural, normal response to a great many circumstances. Repressing that emotion is no better than its opposite outlet: rage. Expecting myself and others to avoid expressing anger is not a healthy way to live.
            Recent events have inspired me to write about this human failing, not only for myself, but also to address what I see as a rising tide of anger unleashed in society, and also a chipping away at the veneer of civility.

            They say to write what you know. And, after all, what subject do we know better than ourselves?

            You might think there's any easy answer to that question, but it's surprisingly complex. True, we have known ourselves longer than we have known anyone else. For better or worse, we are our longest relationship because we are the one person we can't escape.

            But we are also the one person we try hardest to escape.

            Or, as my youngest niece once proclaimed: “The war you cannot win is the war against yourself.”

            That, I believe, is where the rage comes from. It's our inability, despite our best efforts, to escape who we are. If we don't like the person we have become, then our frustration inevitably mounts into anger … which is expressed in a multitude of behaviours, most of them unhealthy for ourselves and those around us.

            Late in my middle age, I am still struggling – as are many – with answers on how to resolve the most troubling aspects of my relationships with others. Which means answering some tough questions about myself.

            At the end of my life's journey, whenever that is, I hope to have more answers than I started out with. But, as is often the case, the journey may only yield more questions.

            Maybe by admitting to my own questions, this can help me – and others – move farther along in that journey.

            We can only hope.

Spring ... a time of hope and renewal.

March melancholy

It's March, and the madness is already well underway.

The NCAA men's basketball tournament is a fixture in my life, going back to my childhood. My parents, both Indiana University graduates, instilled in my sister and me their love of all things IU. Naturally, this included that most beloved of Hoosier sports: basketball.

Growing up, the only IU coach I knew was Bob Knight. Even though I was only in my teens, I can still clearly remember the 1976 team romping through its undefeated season, a feat unmatched since then by any other NCAA men's basketball champion. The 1981 NCAA championship is another bright memory, coming as it did during my senior year at the University of Evansville.

Indiana and Kentucky are like oil and water. They don't go together ... especially not in basketball. Yet, in me they do. I am a Kentucky fan, have been since 1992.

This makes me something of a black sheep in my family, or at least an oddity. No one else would even think of rooting for Kentucky, a long-hated rival.

So how did this happen? Timing is everything. So is location.

In the spring of 1987, I landed my first reporting job at The Messenger, a daily paper in Madisonville, Kentucky. It's hard to be an Indiana fan in Kentucky. But that year, it was easy because Indiana won the NCAA championship, in what would turn out to be their last one to date. Silently, I gloated as the Kentucky fans all around me wailed. For them, the only thing worse than Kentucky losing was Indiana winning.

Then came the 1988-89 season at the University of Kentucky, which brought with it the Emery envelope recruiting scandal and subsequent NCAA investigation. In its cover story, Sports Illustrated called it "Kentucky's Shame." Coach Eddie Sutton resigned, and the NCAA handed UK three years' probation, a two-year ban from postseason play and a ban from live television in 1989-90. It looked like the glory days of UK basketball were over.

Meanwhile, I was finding it harder and harder to remain an IU fan. As Bob Knight's behavior became more and more erratic, his words and actions chafed at my sense of fair play, of how people should treat one another. No one in a position of power should be above it all, where the rules that govern most of us don't apply to them. Is it fair that this eroded my kinship with the IU men's basketball program? Probably not, but it did.

As Bob Knight's star fell, another coach's star was rising. Rick Pitino had taken over as head coach at UK. In that first year of probation, Kentucky games were not televised, so I was left to hear and read about this exciting young coach who was making UK basketball fun again. In 1990 and 1991, UK was also banned from postseason play, so once the regular season ended, that was it. No March Madness for them.

Then came 1992, and "The Unforgettables" ... a team with one supremely talented sophomore, Jamal Mashburn, and four genuinely unforgettable seniors: Sean Woods, John Pelphrey, Richie Farmer and Deron Feldhaus. Those four stuck with the program after countless others had bailed out. Their loyalty would prove endearing not only to Kentucky fans, but to so many who watched what is considered one of the greatest NCAA basketball games of all time: the 1992 East Regional final against Duke.

Kentucky had advanced to the Elite Eight, and many considered this a huge accomplishment, coming as it did on the heels of probation. Duke was expected to crush Kentucky and cruise to the Final Four. Instead, this game was a fight to the finish, both teams refusing to give in. When Sean Woods made his shot with only two seconds to go, giving Kentucky a one-point lead, many thought it was all over, and Kentucky had pulled off a miraculous upset. Instead, as the final seconds ticked away, Grant Hill launched a cross-court pass to Christian Laettner, who caught it, dribbled, turned and scored the winning jump shot, thrusting a dagger in the hearts of Kentucky Wildcat fans.

I was one of them. Heartbroken, I fell in love with that team. I've been a fan ever since.

Kentucky went on to win the NCAA championship in 1996, something that was expected of "The Untouchables," a roster which featured nine future NBA stars, and was effectively two teams deep. But the NCAA final was not a cake walk for them, so winning the championship felt more like relief than joy. But Kentucky basketball was back on top!

More delightful was the 1998 NCAA championship, which was not at all expected. It was Orlando "Tubby" Smith's first year as head coach at Kentucky, and this team was not loaded with talent as their predecessors had been. The 1998 team often found themselves trailing in games, only to pull ahead in the second half. Still, they gutted it out, and made their tournament run a memorable one. Along the way, they got revenge against Duke, winning the South Regional final ... but only after pulling ahead, for the first time in the game, in the final two minutes. That's just the way this team rolled, all the way to the championship title.

Kentucky has endured some uneven years, and a couple of miserable ones, in the interim. Then John Calipari took over in 2010, and coached Kentucky to an eighth NCAA championship in 2012. I'm not a fan of the "one and done" system. I like to get to know my teams longer than just one year. But I also respect the success Calipari has been able to maintain, while essentially rebuilding his teams year after year.

Tonight, Kentucky lost to the University of North Carolina Tarheels, who look to be on their way to their sixth NCAA championship. It was a memorable game, reminiscent of that Kentucky-Duke matchup 25 years ago, and also won on a last-second jumper. Both teams gave it their all, and left everything on the court. I don't feel as dismal as I did back in 1992. But I'm still a little surprised at how strong and enduring those Kentucky ties remain.

Bald eagles and snowy owls

It's been a raptor kind of week.

Last weekend, Rick and I went to Sheffield Mills for the annual Eagle Watch festivities. It was our third year to go. The only time I've seen the eagles fly down and go after the chicken carcasses left there for them was our very first outing, back in 2014, fighting for morsels among the seagulls and crows. Last year they mostly stayed perched in the trees and waited till most of the people left, then flew down to feed. Same thing this year. Someday I will have the patience to stay all day long, and shiver in the cold. Not this year.

However, I will say that Sunday's weather was the best we've ever experienced at an eagle watch. We got there right at 8 a.m. Eagles silhouetted against the sunrise is such a beautiful sight. Not only that, but the eagles were very vocal, trilling and calling out to one another. It would be neat to know what they are chatting about. Maybe something like: "Why are all those people lined up over there, watching us?"

The people shown here are standing where we're supposed to stand, in the viewing area behind the pylons. Unfortunately, whether out of ignorance or just some notion that the rules don't apply to them, a few people ventured out well past the pylons. Some even walked up to one of the trees where the eagles were perched, flushing them all out. It may have reached a point where the festival has become too popular, and a representative will need to be on hand all day long to herd people back where they belong.

Starting with the snowy owl irruption in 2014, I've known of snowy owls coming to Nova Scotia. That year, one perched on the rooftop of Shelburne Furniture, drawing a big crowd of gawkers (including me). Since then, Rick and I have seen snowy owls at Cape Forchu near Yarmouth, Daniel's Head, on Cape Sable Island, and Baccaro Point, the southernmost point on mainland Nova Scotia.

So far this year, I have seen a male snowy at Baccaro Point, as well as a female. Earlier this week someone posted photos of two females in flight, possibly in a territorial display of aggression toward one another. So when I drove over there yesterday afternoon, I hoped I'd see the two females. Instead, I saw this beautiful male. He was sitting along the shore near the lighthouse, keeping watch for prey, but also preening and scratching his head. Then he flew up to the top of this pole, which provides him with a safe lookout spot.

These snowy owls must be fairly habituated to vehicles, as this fellow didn't seem too stressed out by my car, and others, going by. But he did keep a close eye on us. Good thing. Snowy owls and other raptors are wild animals, so it's only right that they are wary and not too trusting of people.

Tinkering

OK, I'm very late to this party. But here's a little rant:

After going to see Rogue One last month, I realized it had been so long since I'd seen the original trilogy of films that I forgot big chunks of the stories. Then, with Carrie Fisher's death, it seemed even more important to revisit those early films which gave us such a radically different female character, especially for that time. OK, yes, Princess Leia needed rescuing a time or two, but so did the fellas. And Princess Leia was never, ever helpless. She knew her way around a battleship, was handy with a blaster, and the Force was as strong in her as it was in her twin brother, Luke. So why didn't she ever get her own lightsaber? As Carrie Fisher put it, "Even in space, there's a double standard."

With that in mind, Rick and I bought Blu-rays of the original three films and binge-watched Star Wars this past weekend.

I remember reading about fans' outrage over changes George Lucas made to the original films in his "special edition" versions, but that got lost in my memory behind the even louder wailing and gnashing of teeth that greeted the release of the prequels. So it was jarring to watch the originals and realize that, even with all I had forgotten, I could spot things which were clearly added, deleted or altered. Lucas seemed obsessed with tinkering a little here, tweaking a bit there, so that he could line everything up into one big saga. Some of the changes are understandable, in terms of continuity, or just the fact that Lucas now had the money and technology to restore his original vision to certain scenes (even if he removed much of the mystery and magic, in the process). But other changes make no sense at all.

The biggest insult came at the end of Return of the Jedi, where we see an age-regressed Anakin standing with an ancient Yoda and Obi-Wan Kenobi, the former appearing as the sullen character we saw in the prequels, the latter as they originally appeared in this film. If you're going to do that, then wouldn't it make sense to show all three as their younger selves? Lucas could have replaced Alec Guinness with Ewan McGregor, just as he replaced Sebastian Shaw with Hayden Christensen. (Oh, the heresy!) Besides, how would Luke recognize the younger Anakin, whom he'd never laid eyes on? He'd only just seen the older, dying Anakin after removing Darth Vader's helmet. Maybe the Force told him?

Rhetorical questions. I know why Lucas did it. He wanted to draw yet another line to the prequels. Obviously that was important to him, but I really couldn't care less. The prequels felt more like an academic exercise than emotionally engaging stories. The characters just didn't draw me in, which was a shock after the original three films, where every adventure had us on the edge of our seats, waiting to find out what happened to Luke, Leia and Han. It's less frustrating now that The Force Awakens and Rogue One have entered the picture, restoring fun, energy and emotional resonance to the series. I'm back to caring what happens to the characters.

Oh well. As Rick says, what's good is still good. And so much of it was, and is, brilliant. So we can hold on to that.

It's interesting to contrast today's multiplex movie-going mentality with the way things were back then. Jaws brought us our first summer blockbuster in 1975. I don't recall one for 1976. Then 1977 rolled around, and I remember reading newspaper stories of people lining up for blocks to see Star Wars. Other than that, I didn't know much about the film. My parents and I had just moved to Evansville that summer. My father's younger sister and her husband, Aunt Marti and Uncle John, came to visit. They lived near Chicago, and were eager to see Star Wars but hadn't gone yet due to the sellout crowds. Once we found out that Star Wars was playing in Evansville, we had to go!

Star Wars was playing not in one of the major cinemas, but at the Washington Theater (http://historicevansville.com/site.php?id=washingtontheater) on the corner of Washington and Kentucky Streets. Word-of-mouth had gotten around, and the theater was packed with a rowdy, boisterous crowd. The opening crawl was intriguing. But it was the sight of Princess Leia's starship being pursued by the Empire's Star Destroyer that drew gasps. First you see the starship, which is impressive enough. Then you see the tip of the Star Destroyer ... and it just keeps getting bigger and bigger. Not only that, but the sound of the ship's passing rumbled through the theater. That was different, as was John Williams' thrilling symphonic score blazing through each scene, giving us memorable themes for each character.

That opening scene was only the start of a wild, witty romp through space, full of fantastic special effects and alien creatures. The audience whooped, hollered, clapped and booed the villains, cheered the heroes. I've never before, or since, been part of an audience so carried away by a movie. In the climactic scene, the destruction of the Death Star (surely that's not a spoiler for anyone by now), the crowd erupted. People were literally jumping up and down out of their seats! I'd never seen anything like it. I loved it, as did Aunt Marti and Uncle John. My parents were less impressed. I think they were expecting something along the lines of 2001: A Space Odyssey or a film that followed Star Wars in 1977, Close Encounters of the Third Kind. Star Wars' comic-book portrayal of good vs. evil, with the Force vaguely characterized as following one's feelings, did not appeal to them.

I sided with Aunt Marti and Uncle John. Fun was in short supply in my own life right about then, and Star Wars delivered. Watching it again this past weekend, and setting aside all the tinkering Lucas did, it was great fun to relive that Star Wars experience.

Peter Pan, and growing up

            Long before I was a writer, I was a reader. I have my mother to thank for that. When my sister and I were in grade school, our mother brought home stacks of library books for us to read.

            One of those books my mother brought me stands out in my mind as the first one I read. I don't know if it really was the first. Memory plays strange tricks on a person.

            The true first may have been a Little Golden Book. Or a Nancy Drew mystery. Or Marshmallow, Clare Turlay Newberry's delightful story about a housecat who befriends a rabbit. But I don't remember actually reading that story. What I do recall is gazing at Newberry's gauzy illustrations of cat and bunny over and over again.

            Others, like Charlotte's Web and A Wrinkle in Time, came later.           

            Stretching back through time, this is the earliest one I can recall reading. Not just looking at pictures and piecing together words or phrases, but really reading and absorbing the story in my mind.

            How old was I? In my emotional memory, first or second grade feels right, but given the sophistication and violence of the story, that's probably too young. Fourth grade feels too late, yet is probably the correct time frame.

            My mother handed the book to me. "You know how much you love Peter Pan? Well, this is the book. It's not just a children's book. It's such a good story that grown-ups enjoy reading it, too. I still love it even now."

By Photographer-Rothschild, Los Angeles (eBay item front back) [Public domain], via Wikimedia Commons

            Mom's reference to the Peter Pan I knew was not the Disney cartoon, but the Broadway musical. It was broadcast for years on NBC TV, and we had the record at home. My parents indulged me by playing the record on our hi-fi, though I'm sure not as often as I would've liked. Somewhere between the ages of 3 and 5, I had every song memorized.

            I'd forgotten about this until, during a visit with my family in Indiana a few years ago, my mother mentioned it to me. "You used to sing those songs for your grandparents," she said.

            Feeling strangely embarrassed, I joked, "Oh, those poor people!"

            "No, no, they loved it! Your grandmother was amazed at how you could sing every single song. You knew all the words, and you could even sing them in the same voices as the singers. You sounded just like them."

By Jerome Robbins/Winter Garden (eBay item front back) [Public domain], via Wikimedia Commons

            So the exuberant voice of Mary Martin was my backdrop for the book on which the musical was based.

            As I opened the dusty, cloth-bound cardboard cover and turned to the first page, I wasn't sure what to expect. Somehow, I knew it would be different. I understood that hearing a story sung on a stage had to be vastly different from reading it in words on a page.

            I couldn't have articulated it then, but as I came to realize later on, musicals take only the most obvious elements of a story and transform them into another art form using acting, sets, costumes, choreography and, of course, music and lyrics.

            Musicals tend to bypass the subtle nuances of literature because they're not needed on a stage. There, a different world is created for the audience using tangible props. In a book, the author must somehow create that world in the mind of the reader using only words.

            I remember being transfixed by the much bigger and richer fantasy world J.M. Barrie had created in the book, compared to what I knew of the musical. There were mermaids here! I didn't remember them being in the musical.

            And, of course, central to the story was the stubbornly defiant Peter Pan. Something about the child refusing to grow up has resonated within me throughout adulthood, as I struggled to be professional in a world where I didn't agree with all the rules. Or as I searched for a soulmate in a world where the mysteries of relationships always seemed beyond my understanding.

            As a child, I didn't know much about what happened beyond my safe, little world. I felt secure in the belief that there was an invisible shield of protection surrounding all children. This was reinforced by many of the cartoons, comic books and movies of the time. The children always came out OK in the end.

            But the dangers threatening these children seemed much more real, more malevolent, than the predictable, melodramatic antics of the stage version. Even though I knew how the story went in the musical, I still worried about what was going to happen to the children. I wasn't entirely sure they would come out OK in the end. All through the book, I sensed this vague, nagging fear of betrayal. Betrayal by the author, who promised a happy ending, but delivered something else.

            Finally, I got to the last page. Instead of closing the book, I kept reading that page over and over again, certain I'd missed something. I vividly recall a feeling I wasn't accustomed to: gloom. Surely this wasn't the end. It couldn't be!

            This story didn't have a happy ending. Not the kind I was accustomed to, anyway. And certainly not the kind I wanted. No triumphant curtain call, that's for sure.

            It wasn't exactly the betrayal I was expecting. No disaster befell any of the children. Wendy, John and Michael made it home, safe and sound.

            Barrie's betrayal was more insidious than that. Rather than assuming the relentlessly cheerful tone I had come to expect from children's literature, the story was bittersweet. The characters experienced pain which was not resolved in a satisfying way.

            And in the end – the ending being not a specific cut-off point, but rather a road disappearing into an endless horizon – Peter Pan stayed a boy, free from all the burdens of adulthood, while the other children kept growing up and, as the book implied but never stated outright, facing their mortality.

            I remember thinking there was something inherently unfair about this. Why couldn't everyone remain a child, free and forever untroubled?

            I also remember thinking that if this is what it meant to be an adult, then maybe I didn't want to grow up, either.

            When I spotted Peter Pan on a bookstore shelf a few years ago, I thought maybe it was time to read the story again, as an adult. And as I read, I was surprised to discover many of my childhood memories of Peter Pan confirmed.

            The fantasy world of the Neverland was still magical and rich, yet menacing. And I was still struck by the idea that a literary work could be adapted and done equally well, though differently, as a musical.

            The main difference between then and now is that I realized what a self-centered, narcissistic, shallow person Peter Pan was. And maybe that's to be expected. I'm an adult now. My ability to empathize with others has grown far beyond what it was then.

            When I was a child, Peter Pan was worthy of admiration. Now, I find myself offended by his selfishness.

            I'm struck now by how human the story is, focusing on very real flaws in both the children and adults. The interesting thing is that as a child, I don't think I perceived the faults in the children (or, at least, I didn't see them as faults). But, of course, I immediately recognized the flaws in the adults.

            I was quick to hold the adults responsible and blame them for their mistakes and failures, but unable to do the same with the children.

            I suspect that's because I was one of those children who are "gay and innocent and heartless." I didn't understand that line then ... especially that last word. Heartless. I do now.

            Now, I see Peter Pan not only as a testament to the joys of childhood, but a warning not to stay mired there. If we seek only the immediate gratification we sought as children, then we will never grow as people.

            Peter Pan may have been happy to avoid the responsibilities of adulthood. But he missed so much of the joy that comes with aging. Our culture does not teach that. But the truth is, if we work at it and learn as we go, growing older means finding peace within ... and with other people.

            If we refuse to allow that kind of inner contemplation and reflection, then how can we ever find our place in the world?

            I used to be a kind of Peter Pan, myself. I resisted growing up. As a result, I often felt I didn't fit in. Now that I'm not putting up such a fight, I find so much more satisfaction in living and learning with people.

            I haven't completely put away the fantasy world. I am, after all, a writer. But I have finally grown up.

            And it feels good.

            As I've discovered, responsibility doesn't have the negative connotations I once thought it did. The responsibility we have as adults is very much the same as that of children: simply to live.

            The difference is that we have learned to live not only for ourselves, but also with others. We've discovered that there is pain, but also great joy, in sharing our lives – our selves – with other people.

            That's not a burden. It's a blessing.

Too easy

Continuing on with last month's musical theme, I've been practicing my C clarinet, and getting better. Many thanks to Forbes and Yola Christie and Windward Flutes, who made my B-flat clarinet look as pretty as it plays! Pit Band is not as challenging for me now as it was at my first rehearsal, but I'm still working to get my embouchure back in shape, and also coaxing my fingers to keep up with my brain ... or is it the other way around?

I assembled both clarinets and put them side-by-side. Given that they're only a half-step apart, I'm surprised by the size difference:

That's the C clarinet on our left, the B-flat on our right. Both are brands I'd never heard of before. The C is an Amati-Kraslice ACL 351 Series II, manufactured by a Czech company. It plays sharp, which is a first for me. The Buffet my parents bought me for my birthday, back in high school, tended to play flat. (Sharp is better, because at least you can lengthen the instrument by pulling out the barrel and bell, thus lowering your pitch. If you're playing flat, then there's nowhere to go except to tighten your embouchure and try to lip the pitch up.)

The B-flat clarinet is an Artley 72S, manufactured by Selmer. It has a surprisingly warm, resonant sound, not what I would have expected from a beginner's instrument. I'm hoping it will play better in tune than the Amati. The Amati was in pristine condition, while the Artley had some cosmetic damage to its black finish, which Forbes and Yola fixed. Both play beautifully; any sound problems are due to the player, not the instrument! Many thanks to Robbie Smith, whose late Uncle Robert played these clarinets. It was through Robbie that I acquired them, and it has been a joy to return to playing music again.

Last month, while Rick and I were visiting my parents in Evansville, Indiana, we walked to H&H Music and picked up a couple of boxes of clarinet reeds, two Rubank "Advanced Method" books and, after much hemming and hawing, sheet music for the last solo I played as a university student: Paul Hindemith's Sonata for Clarinet and Piano. I have been slogging through it, slowly ... very slowly. I still marvel that I mastered its first two movements all those years ago:

I also searched for the sheet music for my first solo, back in eighth grade at Clark Junior High School: "Polovstian Dance" from Prince Igor by Alexander Borodin. No, not the hard one. This melody was reworked for the song "Stranger in Paradise" from the 1953 musical, Kismet:

During my eighth-grade year, we were in our second year in Vincennes, Indiana. My father had been a junior high/high school band director for most of his professional life, but decided to take a different career path: university-level teacher education and counseling. This meant big changes for our entire family. "Home" was in flux for three years. First we moved to Terre Haute so that Dad could attend Indiana State University. Then we moved back to Columbus for a year, then back to Terre Haute for another year.

After that last year in Terre Haute, we moved to Vincennes, where Dad taught at Vincennes University. But he still had more of his own schoolwork to do. He'd completed his master's degree and was now writing his dissertation so that he could earn his doctorate. This meant lots of weekend trips to Terre Haute.

On one of those trips, Dad took me to the music store in Terre Haute, to pick out my clarinet solo for solo/ensemble competition. (This might have been the time he, Mom and Janet surprised me by taking me to a Carpenters' concert at Indiana State University. The timing would fit: Oct. 28, 1972.) Dad thumbed through the sheet music, paused, flipped through pages, frowned and kept going, paused, flipped pages again, frowned, and so on. Finally he stopped, didn't frown, and seemed satisfied that he'd found the perfect piece for me.

"What do you think? Do you like it?"

I nodded. What else could I say? I saw that I could play it, and that was all that mattered to me. I didn't say so, but I felt happy that Dad had picked out this piece of music especially for me.

The following Monday, I took the sheet music to my eighth-grade band director, Don Barnes. Mr. Barnes hadn't yet taken on the iconic status he would assume in high school. (At that point it was Walt Anslinger, head band director at Vincennes Lincoln High School, who still loomed so large.)

I proudly presented Mr. Barnes with my sheet music, expecting him to be pleased that I already had my solo/ensemble piece chosen and ready to go. Instead, he asked, "Where did this come from?"

"My dad picked it out," I replied.

"Well ... why would you want to play this? It's too easy for you!" he exclaimed, then added, "It's my job to choose your solo/ensemble music."

Oh. This was my first encounter with the clash of egos that can erupt in the performing arts.

If I hadn't been a shy, nervous little eighth-grader, I might have said, "Tough. Get over it. He's my dad!"

I didn't, of course. But I didn't appreciate him putting me in the middle. Or casting a shadow over a good experience with my father. Or taking a lovely piece of music and turning it into something I questioned the rightness of, from that moment on.

I don't question it now. Dad's experience as a band director told him I needed a confidence-builder, and he was right. Anything more challenging would have improved me in practice ... but performance was a whole nother story. As I was to discover later on, stage fright robbed me of my technical proficiency, and sometimes of my ability to play altogether. Not exactly a growth experience for a young musician.

I'm going to find that sheet music, even if I have to order it online. It's not "too easy" for me now.

Music and notes

Back in 1983, when I put away my clarinet for good, it felt like a "been there, done that" moment. Time to move on.

My parents were both music majors at Indiana University in Bloomington, renowned for its music program. So naturally our parents expected that my sister, Janet, and I would play music, too. Janet is the far more accomplished musician in our family, a wonderful singer and flutist (though, I think as was the case with me, her flute-playing days are long behind her).

My experiences as a clarinetist are all over the map, due mainly to chronic stage fright, which prevented me from playing well as a soloist. But I also had a knack for ignoring technique and practicing as little as possible ... neither of which served me well, especially once I entered university in 1977.

Despite that, the saving grace of my high school years was band. My family moved a lot when I was a kid, and that inability to attach to a community and call it home has affected me throughout my life. Not all of it is bad. When it comes time to leave, as sometimes becomes necessary due to life's twists and turns, I think it's easier for me than it is for someone with deep roots in a certain place. For me, home is wherever I am.

In my younger years, though, I had not come to that level of acceptance. I didn't have many friends, and I was never one of the cool kids. So band became my refuge, the place where I could focus my energies toward a common goal and work together with a group, even if we were individuals going our separate ways as soon as rehearsal was over.

My junior high and high school years were spent in Vincennes, a small farming community in Indiana. I was not born and raised in Vincennes, and a term I have learned in Nova Scotia – "come-from-away" – was not used there ... but it might as well have been. If you were not from there, it didn't take long to learn that you were never really going to fit in. But again, there was where band helped. Being in that group helped me to fit in, in the only way I knew how.

There's a memorable line from M*A*S*H: "I can play the notes, but I cannot make the music." My small-town band had no business sounding as good as we did, but we had the gift of some amazing directors who moved heaven and earth to help us understand not only how to play the notes, but how to make music. Walter Anslinger, Don Barnes and Larry Stunkel each had his unique teaching style which helped us to learn and absorb what it meant to make music. (Here I will focus on the concert band side of things. Someday later I will talk about the marching band side of it, which led to drum corps, which led to my teaching color guard. That's a column for another day.)

I'm fortunate to have a recording of my high school wind ensemble playing "Lincolnshire Posy" by Percy Grainger. It was my freshman year, and Don Barnes had me play E-flat clarinet, rather than the B-flat I'd played up to that time. (On B-flat I would not have made the wind ensemble cut that year, and so I would have played in the much larger, but not as prestigious, concert band instead.) Mr. Barnes played us many recordings of the Eastman Wind Ensemble who, despite having only one player per part, sounded "like a pipe organ" due to their near-perfect intonation and balance. That was when I learned the importance of listening and playing in tune, and also the excitement of being part of a group where the sum was greater than its parts. I can listen to that recording of "Lincolnshire Posy" even now and wonder, "We played that well?" Yes, we did.

1979 UE wind emsemble concert; I'm in the foreground, with Dr. James Chandler in the background.

After high school, I attended the University of Evansville in southern Indiana. Things got off to a slow start my freshman year. There wasn't the energy and motivation among my fellow students I'd felt in high school. That surprised me. I thought going to university would mean taking it to the next level. With all that talent, surely things will be even better, right? It did happen, eventually, but not that first year. No one seemed inspired to do more than show up, go through the motions and earn a credit. Nothing more.

But by my senior year, things had changed, and the air was charged with expectation. We had an influx of younger students who were not willing to accept mediocrity. And our directors responded accordingly, taking us to heights I certainly never imagined ... but was thrilled to experience. That year I got to play not only in wind ensemble (directed by Dr. James Chandler), but also orchestra (directed by Dr. David Wright) and, something I'd always dreamed of, baritone saxophone in the second jazz ensemble (directed by Dr. Edwin Lacy). I'm happy to have recordings of everything we did that year, so occasionally I play those CDs and relive the fun, excitement and sheer joy of being part of a group where, once again, the sum was greater than its parts.

All three groups played exceedingly well that year, but the culmination of it all, for me, was the Concerto Concert on May 5, 1981. The Concerto Concert was an annual event, in which students auditioned to play a concerto solo with the orchestra. Normally there was only one soloist, but the judges that year could not decide between a field of exceptionally talented musicians. They were able to narrow it down to four soloists: Becky Schmitz on clarinet, playing Debussy's Première Rhapsodie; Danny Duncan on trumpet, playing Bloch's Proclamation; Laurie Hape singing
"Quel guardo, il cavaliere" from Donizetti's opera, Don Pasquale; and Debbie Henshaw on piano, playing Franck's Symphonic Variations.

The opening and closing pieces were hardly bookends: Brahms' Academic Festival Overture and Rimsky-Korsakov's Cappriccio Espagnol. Because our first-chair clarinetist, Becky, was first up with her concerto solo, she didn't play on the Brahms piece. So I, as second chair, moved up to first chair, and I got to have fun with some solos in that piece. Playing solos with a group has never bothered me. It was the terror of being the sole focus of attention, with just me and the accompanist, that got me down. So this was a challenge I enjoyed. It was easy for all of us to get caught up in the heraldic nature of the piece, and the audience enjoyed this start to a great concert.

Then Becky played, and she was superb. A perfectionist, I think Becky was not happy with her performance, but I was impressed by her fluent technique, resonant tone quality and ability to convey Debussy's fluttering, bird-like magic in this piece.

All of the other soloists performed magnificently. You could almost feel the "Can they top this?" anticipation with each round of applause.

Coming as it did at the tail-end of a very long concert, Cappriccio Espagnol could have been an afterthought, but no one was having that. It's a real roller coaster for the clarinets, transitioning back and forth between B-flat and A clarinets. Poor Becky, who had just been through the wringer with her concerto solo, had an equally daunting series of solos in this piece. But she nailed them, as did all the soloists showcased in this piece. I think we in the orchestra knew Cappriccio Espagnol was going to be something special as we were rehearsing it, and it was. As the last notes rang in the air, the audience rose to its feet ... and it wasn't a gratuitous standing ovation. The thunderous applause was genuine.

The next day, with the energy of that performance still coursing through me, I played at a workshop recital. Workshop recitals were held every Wednesday at noon, and were required for anyone taking music. You didn't necessarily have to do a senior recital (though I did ... big mistake), but you had to do one workshop recital every quarter. During my time at UE, I did not have my pick of accompanists. I was not one of the better soloists, and overworked pianists quickly filled their quota of soloists they were required to accompany. So I typically had disinterested accompanists, some of whom were less steady on their feet, musically, than I was.

But this year I got lucky. Matt Boatmon, a superbly talented organ major, had just transferred to UE from the Eastman School of Music. He was desperate for soloists to accompany, and my clarinet teacher, Dr. David Wright, snapped him up. And then I discovered the difference between having a disinterested accompanist and someone who cared and was motivated to work with Dr. Wright and me to make our performance the best it could be. Matt's energy was infectious, and he made me a better player. Not only that, but his skill and musicianship gave me a rock-solid foundation, so that meant I could focus on my job and not worry about his. It was a true collaboration, one that I realized I had not experienced before as a soloist.

Matt and I were scheduled last in a long lineup. It was nearing the end of the school year, so soloists were scrambling to get their time in. As I waited my turn I paced, as I always did, unable to make small talk with anyone. I couldn't relax, but I also didn't have that sinking feeling I usually had before a solo performance. I felt our preparation was enough to carry me through. And it did.

We played two movements from Hindemith's Sonate. Now, if you know Paul Hindemith's music, then you know it's far from traditional. There's lots of syncopation and quirky rhythms. It's really more of a clarinet/piano duet, with the piano "accompaniment" actually being harder than the solo clarinet part, which is why it's so important to have someone capable of taking it on. Matt was more than up to the challenge.

I would be lying if I claimed I played perfectly that day. But that's not the point. Yes, I made mistakes. But I didn't allow them to defeat me and drag down the rest of the piece. Listening to it now, I can still point out every little mistake, every minor "Oh, darn, I had that fixed and I still messed it up" moment. But I didn't fall apart, the way I had so often before. I kept going. And the stuff that was good, was pretty good ... so much better than any of my previous performances. So when I listen to that CD now, my inner perfectionist still laments those mistakes, but I don't languish in them. I hear the good stuff, too. And I feel the exhilaration of overcoming that old nemesis, stage fright. It was a good way to end my last year of university, and my clarinet experience.

A few years later, feeling no real attraction to playing, I sold my Buffet clarinet. Since then, I'd felt no desire to play until this past summer, when Pat Melanson told me that Robbie Smith had some clarinets that Robbie's late Uncle Robert had played, and would I be interested? He hooked me up with Robbie, and I took a look at two of the clarinets. When I opened the first case, I thought, "Uh-oh." The clarinet and case lining were littered with what looked like sawdust. So I quickly snapped that case shut and opened the second one. An Amati from the Czech Republic, it looked to be in pristine condition.

So I put it together and started playing. Not well, mind you. At least for me, playing music isn't like riding a bike. It had been 33 years since I last played a clarinet, and the sounds I was making weren't pretty. Lots of squeaking and squawking, wheezing, fumbling around for the correct fingerings. My embouchure was as flabby as the rest of me, and my breath support was not very supportive. But at least I could make a sound, which can be improved upon.

This clarinet felt smaller than I remembered, but I thought it was my imagination. Nope. When I looked at the manufacturer's pamphlet, I saw that this was not a B-flat clarinet, but a C! I'd never heard of a C clarinet before. The dilemma is that most concert music is written for B-flat clarinet. And the whole reason Pat Melanson got me hooked up with Robbie was because Pat plays oboe in Shelburne's pit band, and he wanted me to join the band. No problem. Our multi-talented director, Bill Smith, transposed the B-flat clarinet parts to C. And we're off to the races!

So (and I apologize to anyone who has made it this far), very long story short, now I'm playing clarinet again. I don't know if I will be able to get back to the level of playing I had before, but I know I'm getting better. So hopefully that progress will continue.

Oh, and by the way: That first clarinet I thought was toast? Turns out Robert had left a reed on the mouthpiece, and the reed had disintegrated. But when I cleaned up the clarinet and played it, it actually played pretty well. All it needed was some cosmetic repair work, which I left in the capable hands of Forbes and Yola Christie at Windward Flutes. Plus, it's a B-flat clarinet, so Bill won't have to transpose for me all the time. Two clarinets; hmmm, the possibilities are endless!

One more thing: Yes, there are lots of "come-from-aways" in Shelburne. And we've all found ways to fit in.