My Career: The Band Man and Why the Soybeans Are Turning Brown

The question comes up a lot more now than it ever has in the past..."when are you going to retire?" I suppose my gray hair bespeaks the question.  The fact is that retirement, or shall I say, the decision about when to retire,  is upon me. I don't have an exact date but I do have an idea of about when I'd like to retire. Georgette, on the other hand, is zeroed in her retirement date and is in range. Like jets lined up to land at O'Hare, she has the runway in sight and  just waiting for the "you are cleared to land" command from the tower. Me? I am somewhere over the Atlantic on autopilot, with the folks in back in the cabin settled in for long flight.

I began my professional career some 38 years ago when I took my first teaching job at a small, consolidated school district in north central Iowa. I was hired as the grade 5-12 instrumental music teacher for the 1975-76 school year. The Band Man. That's what the superintendent of schools called me. When I interviewed for the job, I was told that  the program was down and could use some improvement. The previous year had been a difficult one and  I would be stepping into a situation where things could only get better. The "band man" who began the previous year had long hair and a beard, which drew the ire of the superintendent. He was dismissed mid-year for having students over to his house where there were allegations of alcohol being served. He lived out in the country in a rented farm house and the kids saw it as a cool place to hangout. Not good. Of course, the students loved him. He was replaced by a teacher who was a woman (Band Woman perhaps) and certified to teach strings, but as the Superintendent told me regretfully, she was hired anyway because there just wasn't anyone else available. The students, still angry about the party guy being let go, took it out  on her and she spent most of the semester in tears. I'm not sure if her contract wasn't renewed or she chose not to return, but the position was mine if I wanted it. I had time to interview for other jobs. Maybe I could do a little better than this.  The job came with a modest 6 week summer teaching contract and I could start June 1st, if I was interested. I signed the contract.

I can list out and rationalize all kinds of reasons why I took that job when there were better jobs out there for me, but all that really matters today is that I took it.  That being said, here are some of the things that might have led me to accept this job:

1) I had interviewed for a job in another small district just prior to this one . It was a much better position, they had a brand new school, the program was in better shape. I wanted it. I didn't get it. Still remember getting the rejection letter in the mail. Nearly the end of the world.

2) My wife at the time was 2 years into her teaching career, hated her job and had decided not to return. Our plan was that once I got a job, she would look for one in the area. The pressure was on me now.

3) 1974, my parents had divorced and my family, which included 7 brothers and sisters, was all over the place. Nothing seemed stable. Get a teaching job and everything will be OK.

4) I had no means of support other than my wife's salary and that was coming to an end so I'd better get a job otherwise it was back to McDonald's for me.

5) My self-confidence was shaky and deep down inside, I had doubts that I was worthy of getting a better position, even though I hadn't really applied to many schools yet and had only been turned down once. Yes,  I would be graduating from a good music school but I had rarely been the best or first at anything so I better take what I could get.

In truth, it was probably a combination of all of the above. I signed the contract and found a house to rent for $90 a month at the end of the Main Street in Farnhamville, Iowa. The goal I first set when I was in junior high school was accomplished.

Taken from the 1976 Yearbook

Cedar Valley was the official name of the district and was made up of 3 towns that had begrudgingly consolidated  in 1956. The high school was in Somers, (pop.150),  the junior high was in Rinard, (pop. 90) and the elementary school was in Farnhamville, (pop. 350).  All three buildings were built around 1915- brick 3 story schools with steam radiators in the rooms and a small gymnasium that doubled as the lunch room and basketball court. There is a distinct odor that permeated these buildings that I call" old school smell"- a combination of lead paint, cleaning solutions, kid sweat and whatever was being served for lunch that day.  I lived in Farnhamville since it was the largest of the 3 towns.  I began my day by driving up the paved county road to the high school, then moved to the junior high after lunch.

My summer teaching contract paid me about $600.00 and included teaching music lessons to interested students and directing a summer band concert at a ice cream social/girls softball game event in late June. I was fortunate because the district had purchased a portable building to be used as a music room and it had air conditioning. I was spared having to teach in a hot, old smelling classroom. The time came to have my first rehearsal with the high school band and get ready to the upcoming summer concert. I was guessing about their abilities as most of the students taking lessons were elementary and junior high students. But I managed to put together what I thought was an easy, nicely balanced mixture of marches and pop tunes that would be playable with little rehearsal and still entertain the locals. 

One by one, the students wandered into the band room on that June  evening. Part of the anxiety I was feeling was because I had no idea who would show and since the band was very small to begin with,well, it could get interesting in a hurry.  "Let's begin with a concert B, flat scale. Whole notes up and down. One, two, ready, play.....". Ever have a moment where what's going on in your head and what you are projecting on the outside are at complete odds with each other? On the outside, I'm conducting the band, smiling perhaps, looking encouraged. On the inside my brain  was playing a different tune. "Oh my God, they can't be this bad. It is summer, they haven't played for awhile. What did I get myself into. This is embarrassing."

Next, it was time to play through one of the marches that I had selected. After a few reminders about the key change at the trio and the style I was looking for, it was time to count off the march. "OK, let's give this a run through. From the top, One, two, ready, play......" What I heard as I went through the motions of conducting this motley group of students might have been the worst sounding band I had ever heard. If not the worst, one of the worst. It was awful. Like what Mr. Holland hears in the movie "Mr. Hollands Opus" when he conducts his school orchestra for the first time. Growing up, I had been fortunate enough to play in pretty good bands as I progressed from junior high through my college days. Fresh out of music school, my rational brain was expecting a different level of performance than what I was used to, but my emotional brain was freaking out. Looking  back, nothing could have prepared me for what I heard that night. It was one of those life events I just had to experience. And yet, we had a concert to do in a few days. And we sucked.

And so like I've done so many times in my life, I sucked it up, took a deep breath and set about to make the best of it. After all, I was a professional now.  I got through the  ice cream social where I was introduced many times as "our new band man". The summer went on and soon it was time for school to start.

My first marching band.

I learned a lot that year. Students weren't going to respect me just because I had a college degree and good intentions. Small towns can be difficult to live in if you aren't from there. Winters in rural areas are very different than winters in the city. Farm kids bring all of things into the building on their boots and clothes and radiators amplify the smell.

My house was just south of the Lutheran Church parking lot,
seen here in the upper right  where the white gravel parking lot is.

One incident that has occupied a prominent place in my memory has to do with soybeans. Being raised in the city, I had no idea of what really went on out on the farm. I drove from the high school to the junior high every day after lunch on about 5 miles of gravel roads. As autumn harvest neared, I noticed that the soybeans were drying up and turning brown. One evening at a faculty-school board social after a football game, I was chatting with one of the school board members who was a farmer. Trying to fit in and act as if I belonged, I said, "It sure must be dry this year because those beans are really getting brown." This was met at first with a blank stare then followed with, "No, it hasn't been that dry. Soybeans dry naturally and turn brown on their own, then we harvest them. If they are too moist, the farmer will get a lower price at the elevator because they will have to be dried before they can be sold on the market."  Farmer-1, City Boy-0. You know that feeling when you get caught with your zipper down? That feeling you get when you pass gas and try to pretend it isn't coming for you? Seems like a minor deal but I think of it every fall when I see a field of soybeans.

I moved on to a different school district the next year where I stayed for 4 years. The superintendent told me he was throwing out every application where the candidate had a beard or was a woman. Hopefully no bearded women applied. The new Band Man was hired in late spring, sans beard. But when he stopped by the school just before the year ended while on a house hunting trip, he was donning a full beard. You could see the steam coming from the Superintendent's  ears.