Babies, Beagles and Blessings

"Maesyn, meet Grace."  "Grace, meet Maesyn"

I love this picture. Both Maesyn and Grace seem to be checking each other out. I'd give anything to know what is going on in both of their minds. When we decided to get a dog 4 years ago, one of the factors we weighed very heavily was how the dog would be with young children. As we researched and spoke with people who had beagles, we heard story after story like these:

"Oh, I had a beagle when I was a kid. That dog and I went everywhere together"

"Beagles are so good with kids, my kids tugged on their ears and the beagle just went and hid after a while."

Then there was the neighborhood kid who told us after he met Grace for the first time, "We had a beagle but we had to put her down because she went mad."   "Thanks for sharing, kid, now get lost",  I muttered in my WC Fields voice.

 Beagles are dopes, but I say that affectionately. They are not high energy dogs, except in short bursts. They are breed to sniff out things like rabbits, moles, and even bedbugs. Seriously. When the University of Nebraska had an outbreak of bed bugs in some of their dorms last year, guess who saved the day? A beagle! We thought about having Grace get a part-time job as a bedbug sniffer since she is officially listed under the "expense" column in the family budget, and last I checked, has generated no revenue. Our beagle gets wound up when she sees the signs of a walk, which she gets almost everyday. But after her walk, she is content to lounge and sleep on one of her many pillows for the rest of the day. Unless, of course, she hears the refrigerator door open. I'll text Georgette when I'm away from the house and ask, "How's Grace?" or "What is Grace up to?"  I usually get a short, terse answer such as "Dope", Or "Grace is dope".  Grace's laid back, dopey temperament makes her easy for kids to be around, especially toddlers who might want to pull on hers ears like Lyndon B Johnson did.

Grace, Maesyn and Sayler on Christmas Day

Grandchildren were not of my list of life goals and I managed to avoid fatherhood very intentionally. Then at the ripe old age of 43, I married Georgette, and the next thing I know, we've got 5 grandchildren. The fact that I am writing today about a dog and our grandchildren is more than serendipitous. I literally took the express bus to Grandpa-ville. Not a bad deal, you're thinking. Live without children until midlife, skip changing diapers, cleaning up vomit, sleepless nights and making financial sacrifices, let someone else do all the heavy lifting, then swoop into their lives to save the day and reap all the blessings as if you'd been there all along. Well, not quite. Most of that is true except for the part where I saved the day. No one needed any saving and as far as swooping in, let us just say that's open to interpretation. Needless to say, I have the family that I never thought I wanted and now can't imagine my world without.

Cooper

Our 3 grandchildren who live in Florida have 3 dogs: Cooper,  a homely but lovable chihuahua, Calloway, a stout and stodgy English Bulldog, and Penny, a skittish Yorkie. Sayler and Maesyn, pictured here, live in Kansas City and have no pets.........yet. For now, Grace is their sometimes-dog and  takes part in all of our holidays and other gatherings except when there is a large children's birthday party. It's just easier on everyone, Grace included, when the house is full of toddlers, amped up with candy, cake and the now fashionable Jump-house rental, that Grace stays home. 

It's absolutely delightful to watch our grandchildren grow and develop and I haven't yet tired or gotten used to being called "Papa".  Knowing they will be a part of the rest of my life is both gratifying and hopeful. Grace, on the other hand, has reached her potential and may not be with me the rest of my life. Today, the blessings of grandchildren and a beagle are far more than this reluctant Papa could have ever hoped for. 

Male Seeking Female: Must Share Mowing

I'm having a problem in my marriage and need I  some advice.

Did that get your attention?  Are you skipping ahead and looking for the juicy tidbits? Are you thinking that I've gone off the deep end and am about to spill my marital dirt all over the front yard for everyone to see? Or that you might have to pull out your TMI sign and wave it in my face?

Relax, there's nothing too tawdry about what I'm about to share. Besides if there was, I have way too much pride to share it on a blog. And because my wife (who will be referred to as GK from here on out since Georgette is way too many letters for me to type repeatedly) has promised to never throw my stuff out on the front yard no matter what I may have done to deserve such treatment, thus I will not throw our issues out on the blogger front yard for everyone to read.

Now back to that problem. This problem has a lot more to do with marital bliss than marital dirt and could best be described as a "quality problem". If you are not familiar with the concept of the "quality problem", here are a couple of examples.

"We are really stressed out about our retirement. We can't decide to buy a second home in Costa Rico or Aruba"

"This college decision is driving us crazy. The offer from Yale is really good, but Stanford wants her too.  I just don't know what we're going to do".

"We got in a big fight over where we wanted to go out for dinner. I had my heart set on Moe's 5 star over-priced and pretentious cafe and he wanted to go to Wally's upscale bistro where the cool people go".

Those are quality problems. They are sometimes to referred to as fancy problems. You know one when you hear one because they usually induce the urge to vomit. Or to shout out, "Spare me!" Or to lash out in a blistering tirade about your real problems and how life isn't treating you fair, none of which I recommend you do. People who continuously share their quality problems with the hopes of getting some sympathy just don't get it and you'll be waiting your time. It's like trying to teach a pig to sing-it annoys the pig and wastes your time.

So where was I?   Oh yes, marital bliss and my quality problem. The problem I'm having is about who gets to mow the lawn. You heard that correct. We both like to mow the lawn and can't seem, even after nearly 16 plus of marriage, to get that worked out. It came to a head just a couple of days ago when I received a text from GK while I was at band practice that stated " Front and sides done. My turn!" It was 7:50 pm in the evening on a weeknight. 

 A little background might be helpful-when we first hooked up (not as in "hook-up" like the kids say these days) we were in our mid 40's. GK had raised 2 children and managed her  household and career just fine, including lawn mowing duties. So when we agreed to merge households ( OK, I got rid of my dumpy apartment and moved into her house) and get married (those character building nights really were unnecessary at our age) we had a few things to work out. At first, I insisted on doing my own laundry. That didn't last long. "You don't sort your clothes by whites and colors? "Here, let me help you fold those""You know it will be easier if I just do your things, it's really no big deal"

Seriously? No big deal? I hated doing my laundry so I just threw everything into the washer and turned it loose. Worked fine for me.  She has been doing my laundry ever since.

Meals were no problem because she loves to cook and is always planning and organizing the next meal. I'm a grateful, card-carrying member of the Clean Plate Club which makes me the best audience a cook can have.

Now for the lawn mowing. At first, when we lived in Lincoln and both worked locally, we agreed to split the lawn mowing 50/50. If she did her half on Saturday morning, I'd get my half done Saturday afternoon. Every now and then one of us would do the entire yard so the next mow would belong to the other person. The lawn was easy to mow and our arrangement worked fine until we moved to Omaha.

Our home in Omaha has a steep backyard. The front and sides are relatively flat but there is more sq. footage. We agreed that I would do the backyard because of the hills and GK would do the front and sides. I was traveling a lot in my job and she was commuting back and forth to Lincoln so she would do her half during the week and I would do my half on the weekend.

Now here's where it gets a little dicey. I work locally so I'm home by 5 most nights. GK still commutes so she usually isn't home until 6. This summer, I've been starting the mowing a bit after 5 and usually have the entire lawn done or nearly done by the time she pulls in the driveway. Here is what typical transpires next:

"Thanks for doing my half but you didn't have to."

"I got on a roll so I did both halves"

"I was planning on doing my half"

"I appreciate that, Hun, but it doesn't make sense that when are commuting an hour home from work and I have the time, for me not to mow all of it. Besides, you're going to still make dinner, aren't you?"

"Yes, but that won't take too long. I can still do my half."

And so it goes.

Now you get why this is a quality problem. So back to that text, the one the said "Front and sides done. My turn!"  We've been mowing on Tuesday evenings. Monday I went to band practice at 7pm and while I  was at rehearsal...yep, she got me. She outwitted me. She mowed.  Gotcha! Touché! Checkmate.

So my question is this-Do I concede and stick to mowing just my half-regardless of whether she is still on her commute and is planning on making supper? Or do I continue to try beat her to it knowing that I might be denying her a little bit of pleasure, strange as that may seem? I'd appreciate any advice you might have.

Just don't tell me what I already know. That the only marital problems I have are quality problems. That I should be glad she's not keeping score. That life isn't always fair. That I got more than I deserved. And that if I write another story whining about one of my quality problems, you just might try to teach this pig to sing.

They're Putting the Band Back Together

Band rehearsal starts tomorrow night at 7:15 and I am really looking forward to it. The last time I played was at the 4th of July concert, so I got my alto saxophone out and practiced a little bit this afternoon to knock some of the rust off. OK, practice might be overstating what actually occurred. I played a few scales, blew a few tunes and riffs that are easy to retrieve from my memory bank, then played along to a CD that has jazz standards on it. It's one  of those play-along CD's that are similar to karaoke, only for an instrument instead of a vocalist. I was more than rusty and just wanted to make sure I hadn't forgotten how to play. I hadn't.

You see, I still love to play, I just don't like to practice anymore, not that I ever enjoyed practicing that much even when I was in music school. That's why being a performing member of a group is so important to me. Tomorrow evening, I will join in with about 60 other band nerds who make up a community concert band called the Nebraska Wind Symphony and we will make music......again. Everyone will be a little rusty and it will take a couple of rehearsals to get our chops back to where they were, but we will get there. We always do.

I can't count the number of hours I've played in bands in my lifetime, but it has to add up to thousands of hours. Beginning in the 6th grade, all the way through high school and college and for 10 years post college, my life was centered around music and playing in bands and orchestras. Marching bands, jazz bands, pit orchestras for musicals, dixieland bands, the list goes on and on. I've been in bands that played in bars and clubs where we performed "Mustang Sally" or "Brown Eyed-Girl" so many times you could play it your sleep, and sometimes did.  I've played Glenn Miller's "In the Mood" so many times I could puke. And I've led bands as the conductor  which is another wonderful experience altogether from just playing in the band.  

That's me (front center) in the glasses and the groovy
neck strap playing in the HS Pep Band, 1971.

For most of my adolescence and young adulthood, music was what I did and was what I was about. When I left my career as a music teacher  back in 1984, I was lost musically, for a few years. With no gigs, I found it difficult to practice much. That changed in 1987 when discovered the concert band that I am a member of today. This concert band has become my musical base, the group that keeps me playing and even practicing, just enough to keep my musical fires burning. 

Musicians are an odd group of characters, band nerds especially. I say that affectionately as I am a band nerd, big time. We come from all ages and walks of life- teachers, veterinarians, computer geeks, a minister or two, retired folks- but we share a common love for band music and we love to play. We gather every Monday night from September to July to make music and prepare for our concerts, where we share our music with the community. We play marches, overtures and original works for band. And for 2 hours we forget, momentarily at least, about whether we've saved enough for retirement or the trouble we are having at work, or about the health problems we are going through. We just make music-music that quiets the mind and soothes the soul. 

At this stage of life, I am blessed to still be able to play and to have a group to perform in. Both are gifts. I'm not the best player in the section anymore, nor do I lead or conduct the group. Those are in the rear-view mirror, as they say. The day will come when I will play no more and that will be a sad day. But that's not today. Today, I'm just a second chair saxophone player who wants to play band music and is looking for a gig.

 Tomorrow night, at 7:15, they are putting the band back together again. I'll be there.

This video is of the Nebraska Wind Symphony at it's 25th year anniversary concert in 2002 where I conducted the group in a medley of show tunes called, "Broadway Show-Stoppers".

Sometimes, there are more important things.......

The congregation had settled in for another of Pastor Frank's sermons at the Lutheran church I attended back in the late 80's. Pastor Frank usually gave a good sermon so the fact that I was constantly switching channels had less to do with him and more to do with my short attention span. But for some reason that Sunday, I tuned back into his frequency just I time to hear him say, "Sometimes.....there are more important things ....than being right..."  As he paused momentarily, I remember the voice inside my head saying  "Ooh, that's good" as I began to wonder what some of those more important things were. The pause lasted only a couple of seconds when he completed his message with "even if you are." Then he said it again.

"Sometimes, there are more important things than being right, even if you are". 

He could have left the "even if you are" part out and his statement would have still resonated with me that morning. It was  like those words flew out of his mouth and made their way across the congregation and like a wayward foul ball, whacked me upside my head. Except no one came running to to see if I was alright. To this day, I have no idea today what the rest of his sermon was about , but I have never forgotten those words or who it was that said them to me.

I have a confession to make. I know this will come as a surprise to some of you who know me, but I can be a bit of a know-it-all. Stop your laughing....What? You already knew that? ....You say I 'm a what?  A sexual intellectual? What you mean by that?.....Oh I get it, I'm an F****ing know-it all!

More times in my life than I'd like to admit, I have thought I was right and then went on to tell you I was right, only to lose in the end. Sometimes I meant well, it's just that I tried too hard. I wanted you to like me or think I was smart. Other times, I didn't mean well and used my righteousness to hurt you, embarrass you or put you in your place. Either way, it was wrong and over time I paid a price for it.

The truth is, most of times when I thought I was right and told you I was right, I was acting out of fear. Fear that you might be right. Fear that I might be disappointed in the way things would turn out. Fear because I felt less than you. Fear that I might not get something I thought I deserved or would lose something that I thought I was entitled to. Driven by a thousand forms of fear, I stepped on those who cared about me or pushed away those I didn't think cared about me. And I was left wondering why at times, I felt so alone.

  

Pastor Frank's words came at a time in my life when I was just beginning to realize who I was and who I wasn't. As I went forward from that Sunday, I often used his words in my teaching, always taking time to tell others about who he was to me. Whether counseling with couples or  teaching about conflict resolution or relationship skills, his words have
came in handy so many times I could not count.

So, what is more important than being right, even if you are? I'm sure you have your own list, but here a few of mine: 

Having a good day with a bit of serenity.

Maintaining good relationships  with family and friends.

Giving others the respect to live their own lives, their own way.

The possibility I could be wrong.

Staying connected to others rather than driving wedges or creating barriers.

We live in world gone mad, it seems at times. If you are looking for fault in people, places or things you don't need to look very far. And even if you are just going about your day, minding your own business, it seems like there are plenty of people who you would swear, just got out of bed to drive all the way over to your side just of town to ruin your day. Believe me, some days I need all humility, restraint and grace I can get.

I was teaching a seminar once where I told a story about a man in my city who was killed in a road rage incident. Turns out he thought he was right and went after the driver who he thought had wronged him, only to die as a result of his efforts to retaliate. I had Pastor Frank's quote on my PowerPoint and shared it with the class. At the end of the seminar, a man came up and told me he enjoyed the seminar and then he handed me a napkin with a handwritten poem on it. He suggested it would have come in handy to the poor soul who perished in the road rage incident. As he walked away, I read what he wrote on the napkin:

He was right, dead right.

And now he is gone.

And he is just as dead as if he had been wrong.

Last fall, Pastor Frank passed away here in Omaha. I attended his service and was able to share this story with his son and daughter--that I used their father's words  many times over and always mentioned where I learned them. It was the least I could do to honor an old friend and the man who conducted our wedding ceremony. His words ring as true today as they did some 25 years ago and for that, I am truly grateful.

Note: The poem written on the napkin is a version of an old English poem that dates back many years. If you google it, you will find slightly different variations of it. 

Labor Day: Reflections on a Life of Work

Labor Day feels different today than in the past. Maybe it's all the talk about retirement these days, both at home and in the news. Maybe it's because I got an e-mail from Social Security today-you know, the one that shows you how much you've earned every year since you started working. $36! That's how much I earned in 1968, which isn't too bad considering I only worked during December. I made a whopping $1578 in 1969, then $1623 in 1971, the year I graduated from high school. However, after 45years of jobs, my Social Security earnings record is only a small and relatively insignificant part of my work story.

The Job I Had

As one of the oldest of 8 children growing up in a crowded, chaotic household, there was always work to do. Taking out the garbage and scrubbing floors led to paper routes and lawn mowing jobs. My first real job was at McDonald's, where I started the day after I turned 16. New employees began by wearing a hat that was blue and had "Trainee" on it in big white letters.  It might as well have said "LOSER" on it.  You wore the Trainee hat for about 30 days until you got your McLegs under you, then you were given the regular white crew hat that everyone else wore. You were still a loser, just not as big of a loser.  I started working on the milk shake machine and when I mastered that job, I was moved over the station where you "dressed the buns" which then put you in direct line of the most coveted job in the joint..the Grill Guy. Guys that worked the grill were like Maverick and Goose in Top Gun, the few, the proud, the grill guys. Milk shake guys ...losers. Bun dressers...wannabes. Grill guys.....studs! The term "guy" is intentional here because McDonald's was an all male workplace until around 1970.

The actual McDonald's at the time I had my first real job.

The highlight of my McDonald's career came when I was named the Employee of the Month in August of 1969. Now before you mutter "loser" or "want fries with that?" consider what I received for being named the Employee of the Month:
 1) Dinner for 2 at one of the best steak houses in Des Moines. Just sign the check. I took a date and ordered the 16 oz. Porter House, medium rare. Sweet. Not sure what she had.

2) A 15 cents per hour raise. I went from $1.50 an hour to $1.65 an hour.

3) 2 tickets to the new wide screen Cinerama movie theater where we saw "Krakatoa East of Java".

4)  $25 dollars in pocket money for incidentals. Is beer an incidental?

5) A trophy with my name on it and a color picture of me in my uniform. 

Employee of the Month, August, 1969

I thought the first 4 items were pretty cool. The trophy was alright. The picture of me in my uniform? I could have done without that. The trophy and picture were placed on top of a shelf above the fry station near the front counter where all the customers could see it. This McDonald's was in a college neighborhood and directly across the street from a  bar that was the place to be on a Saturday night. Students would wander over to McDonald's to grab some munchies and a few may have had a little too much to drink. Eventually they would notice the picture and then they would look for me. "Is he working tonight? Hey, there he is!" From back in my grill station I could read their lips and they weren't saying things like, "Oh, look  at that fine young man. He's the Employee of the Month. Isn't he cool?" 

When my month was over, they gave me the trophy and the picture and I took them home and placed both on a shelf in my bedroom. When I went off to college, I stuffed them in a box with my personal artifacts and they rarely saw the light of day.  That all changed in 1991 when I decided to share my McDonald's picture with as many people as I possibly could. And I have. You can count yourself among the thousands who've seen it since I began sharing it. I told my wife that I wanted it on display at my funeral. She said she'd think about it

The Work I do.

What lies between that first job at McDonald's and the job I have today is my life's work. Yesterday, a manager came to see me to talk through some challenges he was having with a couple of his employees. He left more encouraged. I spent an hour with one of our clinic supervisors and her boss talking about her growth and development. She left feeling valued.Today, I got an e-mail from a newly promoted supervisor asking for some ideas on how to get off to a good start with her new team. She'll spend the weekend feeling more supported.  That is the work I do. I encourage, listen, advise, coach, teach and counsel.

Like most people, I've had some really good jobs and some really bad jobs. Jobs I've loved and jobs I've hated, but I've always pursued work that I love. In retrospect, I can see the threads of my best work woven through every job I've ever had. I've feel very fortunate to have been able to do what I do best, most of the time. Not everyone is that fortunate. Out of economic necessity, many people toil in bad jobs or jobs where they don't have the opportunity to do what they do best.

Take a moment this Labor Day weekend to pay tribute to those around you whose work benefits you or your community, regardless of how much or little they are paid. My Social Security record will not tell you anything about the work I did. It will only tell you how much I earned. The day will come soon enough where I may no longer have a job. But my hope is that my work will continue as long as I live.

Creative Musings

 I recently came across an article in a health magazine whose headline really got my attention-"Getting Tipsy May Inspire Creativity".  Really?  Is there a connection between intoxication and inspiration? The article seems to suggest there is. Because if there is, I'm left out again. You see, I don't drink alcohol. Period. Nada. Not a single drop. Not a sliver of champagne at a friend's wedding toast. Not a can of beer after mowing the lawn. New Years Eve, I'm putting down the diet sodas like crazy or at least until 11:30 when I can no longer stay awake. So whatever creative advantage there is in lubricating your right side of your brain with booze, grog, firewater, moonshine, hooch or whatever you choose to call it, I'm shit out of luck.

Now before I go any further, let me set the record straight. I'm am not a teetotaler, a temperance advocate, a prude or an advocate of prohibition. If you like to drink, that's your business.  There are plenty people who drink normally and get along just fine. In fact, I had a 25 year love affair with alcohol. Then we broke up and it ended badly. Believe me when I say, if I could have a few drinks of what ever new micobrew they are making these days and be a little more creative, without it ruining the rest of my life, I would. However, I don't believe I need alcohol to enhance my creativity anymore and I don't need to drink alcohol to have a good life.  But I used to.

In HS, this held my creative muse.

It started out innocently enough. Sneak some beer to a junior high party and everyone thinks you're cool. Act a little stupid, act a little silly, no harm done. Sneak an empty Plochman's mustard bottle filled with cherry vodka  into the bell of your saxophone and take it with you on the marching band trip. Have a mixed drink at halftime of a football game and while you're at it, pour a few drinks for your friends. Every now and then, drink till you puke, scribble creative writings on the back of a record album and call it being creative. Got a 10k run in the morning? Go ahead and drink too much the night before. That hangover will wear off by mile 3. Oh, and lest I forget, go to class, get good grades, get a job, fall in love, go to college, get another job, and act like nothing is out or order in your life. Drinking became a part of every normal thing I did-the good things, the bad things, the ordinary things.

For most people, drinking enhances an ordinary experience, takes the edge off our worries and lightens the load. And I suppose it makes them more creative, so the article suggests. It didn't me. I forgot how to enjoy the good things in life just as they were. A great concert...make it better with booze.  Got some sadness in my life? Drown it away with with a couple of cold ones. From simply wanting to enhance the ordinary, I got to place where I couldn't live with or without it. For people like me, drinking is a deal you strike with the devil. I took all I wanted in the moment, but I paid for it in the end. I had no idea of what kind of a tab I had run up until it came time to pay up. I reached the end. I was done. I was out of options. I made the biggest decision of my life and stopped drinking. That was 23 years ago.

Learning to live without alcohol after having it woven into nearly ever part of your existence is no easy task. But with the support of people who share this common malady, it can be done. By any measure, my life is better in every way without alcohol in it. I've learned how to experience every thing this life has to offer, the good the bad and the ugly, with all of my senses fully intact. Not always as gracefully as I'd like, but I am a still work in progress. I still remember vividly going to my first big concert after I got sober-would it sound as good and would I enjoy it as much as I thought it did when I was drinking? Armed with a cup of black coffee, I can still hear Paul Simon and his 18 member band of world class musicians that night--the music was crystal clear, all frequencies firing, I was totally immersed in the moment.  I was sure the tulips were brighter that first spring I experienced it sober. Today, to play on the floor with our beagle, to get swept away by the sounds of music, to walk on a mountain trail or around the neighborhood with my soul mate by my side, to sit and listen to friend who is sick and afraid-these are enough they way they are. They need no altering. They are to be experienced as they are and that is the gift of sobriety.

The world of creative people is full of stories of those who used alcohol or drugs as their creative muse. Some got away with it, many crashed and burned. The article goes on to state that men who were moderately drunk solved problems more intuitively than sober ones. Seems an impaired executive function may be helpful for these types of creative functions, they stated. Executive functions? Is that like when you can't remember where you parked your car or what you said that insulted your friends? Or when you thought you needed one more beer only to wake up and find yourself sitting in the the living room at 3 am, with some bad infomercial playing on the TV and there is a full can of beer still sitting on the end table? 

I don't know if drinking alcohol gives as person a creative edge, but I'm going to stick to diet lemonade and coffee. Life seems to go better that way and besides, I've been drunk and I've been sober and I like sober better.

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.