LeTourneau Organ, Hodge Chapel, Beeson School of Divinity, Samford University
I keep getting surprised by death.
No, not the concept but the fact that someone has died whom I had already presumed to be departed.
Some months ago it was Mitch Miller. (See August 3, 2010 blog.) More recently it was Eddie Fisher. I think that since Elizabeth has had so many very publicly traumatic health encounters, I had assumed that he had slipped quietly away some time ago. Aside from his marital histrionics, I didn’t know too much about him. I am aware of the “spacey” daughter. (You can read into that anything you wish.)
I was also surprised by death this week to learn the loss of an old mentor from college days. H. Edward Tibbs, a brilliant organist, designer of over 50 area organs, and excellent teacher, died in Birmingham. He was a great influence in my musical training.
However, I did not represent one of his great achievements.
I arrived as a transfer student to study church music at Howard College – now known as Samford University – with all the skepticism that a relatively large secular state university could imprint on a small-town boy. Couple that with the “worldliness” of having been under the spell of Paris-trained architects since leaving home too young and you have a cynical pseudo-sophisticate naïve teenager who was full of himself and the “international style.”
The state university campus had evolved with no apparent long-range plan. Remember that state universities expand on the lowest-bidder formula – edging a building spot wherever possible. Howard, however, was a model of planning – a collection of updated 18th Century design plopped down in the heart of Birmingham’s wealthiest area. Seas of limestone-clad towers, beveled glass, brass, and hand-rubbed paneling preening on a manicured landscape. Think William Graves Perry and Colonial Williamsburg without the sheep.
I arrived in this scenario of order and discipline with something of an attitude, I fear.
In order to be admitted to the music department, I had to play an audition. This was the second hurdle in this change of life plan. The first was telling my mother and father that not only was I not going to be an architect, I was also going to leave the relative inexpensive world of the state university to transfer to a private college in another town.
The plan unfolded, publicly, over Thanksgiving in my third year of design. It had been forming since I had begun to direct the choir at the Baptist church in the community where I lived. I was bitten by the music bug and it was gnawing away at my architecture
Being absorbed into the world of building design, I had not studied with a teacher in several years at this point. I contacted my old piano instructor from my youth to assist me with polishing my performance. I learned, later, that it was a “black day” for her. She was at once faced with the memories of a “less than dedicated” student who opted to drop out of lessons every other year. “Why is he tormenting me now?”
I had managed to prepare two Bach inventions and a Mozart Rondo. I actually surprised her and we had fun “polishing” the product. Only later did I learn about the “black day.”
Because I had a vision that I would spend my years as a church musician, on the order of J.S., himself, I decided I would be an organ major. Not good! Not good!
While I loved the organ, I was not “in love” with it. Even today, my playing is barely acceptable and my technique deplorable. Up to that point, my association with the instrument had been via an electronic device made popular by Ethel Smith and her famous Tico Tico. Hardly anything promising for someone expected to master the "St. Anne." Even Albert Schweitzer carved a better association with the instrument in the remote jungle. His tempos were a bit slow. It was probably the heat.
Page McPherson, on the other hand, was its most devoted follower. Her devotion could probably be characterized as obsession. She was our supreme “organista.”
You have all met a “Page” at some point in your life.
She was frighteningly dedicated. Physically, she was not a winsome wonder – rather plain. My friend, Steven Sparks, would have referred to her as a “woman of rare beauty.” But Page was in love with the organ.
She even had a special language which was associated with her grand passion: “HE” was Harold Gleason, the author of the “Bible” of organ-methodology. “SHE” was Catherine Crozier – married to Harold – who was one of the great organists of the day. “IT” was the large Aeolian-Skinner instrument in the chapel on the Howard campus. “HIM” was, of course, Tibbs, her teacher and mine.
Like the postman in the famous weather adage, Page walked the distance from the music department over to the chapel many times each day with her “Orgelbuchlien” clutched against her chest. She was not a shapely girl so I chose not to use bosum. And because of her limited lexicon, she was not particularly popular. It is hard to fake interest in a discussion with that many pronouns. You get confused easily.
My lessons were always traumatic. I practiced, but refused to own those special male tap-dancing shoes that were required for excellent pedal technique. My “chukka” boots just didn’t hack it. I would forget to lift the inner fingers on the repeated notes. Dealing with me was a challenge for Tibbs. I should have shared the contact information for my piano teacher of childhood so they could commiserate together. They could have compared "black days."
Eventually Tibbs and I had a meeting of the minds. I became a voice major. You don’t need special shoes for that.
Page continued her devotion.
One fine spring day after I had come to my senses and dropped my organ career, everyone was in a “forget practicing and let’s goof off” mood. The windows of the music building were open and you could hear competing melodies. Coming from up in the garret was the sound of Page slaving away on the “Little G-minor" on the Holtkamp.
It was April and 50 years almost to the day of that riotous premiere in Paris. You know the one. A light went on in my rambunctious mind.
I coerced a couple of buddies to assist me. We dashed upstairs as the strains of “Le Sacre du Printemps” was being blasted out an open window and grabbed Page from her perch on the organ bench. We opened the garret window – three stories up – and bodily dangled Page headfirst as our virginal sacrifice to spring as Stravinsky’s pulsating ostinatos hit their peak.
Yes it was cruel, But it was Spring! April is, after all, "the cruellest month."
While she screamed protests, she smiled the rest of the month of April and even into May for all the attention she received. She, he, and him would have been proud of her!.
While I was a disaster as an organ major, Tibbs taught me a ton about sacred music. I learned about the practice of music in varied faiths. I developed quite a love of contemporary organ literature – especially Dupré, Langlais, and Messiaen. He taught me the fundamentals of organ design. I even became a better composer because I understood “the king of instruments.” Who knows what might have happened if I had those tap shoes.
So a great "thank you" to HIM!
Tony Curtis died today.
While we were not particularly close, the past keeps leaving me.
Chicago, Chicago!!
Eventually, I was able to get past so I have no idea of how long the congestion lasted. It made me sad to think that someone could be so selfish as to not care about the danger and inconvenience to others. And then could be so angry and abusive when questioned about his actions. (This, of course, feeds into my belief that you can only hear so much angry rap before it infiltrates your whole being. I don't think Beethoven does that. Tchaikowsky maybe, but certainly not Bach.)
Today, as I walked into my building, I saw a young woman park her vehicle in the middle of two parking spaces. Now, let me hasten to tell you that parking in my neighborhood after 5 p.m. on any day is like finding the golden egg. On Sundays, it is like hitting the Lotto. So, I said, “Miss, would you be so kind as to move either forward or back a few feet so that another car could get into the space as well?” I was greeted with the response, “Get Lost, Old Man!” (Well, at least there was no expletive as the other driver had received yesterday.)
Have we become so selfish that we only care for our own needs and nothing for the needs of others? I didn’t need the parking space – I was already safely ensconced in a precious space – but I have arrived home and been forced to spend an hour driving about hoping that someone would need to run to the grocery store for a late night of Rocky Road.
I even have the guilt that I have questioned my visiting child’s degree of upset stomach because it meant giving up a parking space to run to Walgreen’s. (I did go, by the way-so I am only partially callous.)
I have even considered a “handbill” campaign where I would get some flyers photocopied urging everyone to park responsibly and give more people a chance to find a spot. However, I worry that the flyers will wind up littering the street. I saw another driver park and dump two bags of McDonald’s debris onto the curb as she exited her vehicle. I bit my tongue.
We are an angry city. We are an angry nation! We are also a very selfish population!
I always remind my children that drivers in Chicago do not automatically stop for a red traffic signal – especially if they had planned to turn left. The light can change when they are mid-block, but the fact they intended to do a directional shift means “here I come, look out, I am in a turning frame of mind!”
I plan to quiz the Lincolnwood police. The area of Devon Avenue between McCormick and Lincoln Avenue is like the Indy 500. You couple the speed with the strange parking habits at the Devon Avenue USPS (Immigration Central) and you have a disaster waiting to be.
I was once at the post office when a large black Lincoln town car parked in a “no parking” zone in the front of the facility. The driver – a Catholic priest – emerged and wound up in front of me in the long line to mail a package. (My local USPS – the same one mentioned above – has 8 windows for customer service, but there is obviously some rule somewhere that only 2 can be opened during the high rush periods.)
“Father, why did you choose to park in a ‘no-parking’ zone in front of the post office?”
“I am Priest!!” He responded adamantly.
“Are you doing ‘priestly duties’ here in line for stamps? Is the Bishop out of Priority Mail Stickers?”
“I am Priest!!” again he spoke with great emphasis.
“Yes, I recognized your outfit. However, you are parked illegally. Will you do confession when you return to the Rectory? Who hears your confession? What about all the young children who saw you park illegally, who will explain to them why you chose to do that?”
“NEXT!” One of the two windows open had come available.
He rushed away.
The little Polish lady behind me held her parcel close to her chest as she said something that eluded my understanding, but I don’t think she approved of my bantering with the Man in Black. Since she was clutching her package so tightly, there was not a free hand for any angry gestures. I think that particular gesture is universal. However, I have not seen it anywhere else but in Italy. But, hey, you know the Italians!
How did this happen? How did we become so self-centered and uncaring for others? How did we assume rights that are clearly wrongs?
Morose Mitch is so worried that his wealthy Republicans will be taxed that he threatens that his party will not allow those who need tax relief to benefit unless all the tax cuts are extended. And yes, he said so without any hint of a smile. In a column in the NY Times, Paul Krugmann, the Nobel Laureate in Economics, cites rage among the rich. Krugmann states, “self-pity among the privileged has become acceptable, even fashionable.” (NYTimes, September 19, 2010)
The Tea Party is riding a series of election successes fueled upon anger. The Koch brothers are spending millions to defeat a clean-energy bill in California because it will impact their pocket book. Glenn Beck hosted a “Restoring Honor” gathering on the Mall in Washington, D.C. It was all about restoring the faith upon which our country was founded. Taking back America has serious overtones to me. I am not certain “my America” is anything at all like Glenn’s or Mama Grizzly’s.
All the conservativism reminded me of a discussion that I had with my father over “school prayer.”
Dad could not fathom that I was against school prayer in my son’s public school each day.
I reminded my father that when I was in school, my Principal was a deacon in our church. His wife, my seventh grade teacher, was also my Sunday School teacher. So if we prayed, it would be a prayer consistent with my family's beliefs. However, at the time of the school prayer issue, my son was in about the 5th grade. So I asked my father which prayer should he use?
His kindergarten teacher was Roman Catholic. His first-grade teacher was Indian, so probably Hindu. His second-grade teacher was a free-spirit and I doubted ever went to church. His third-grade teacher was a Presbyterian, so decidedly Calvinist. His fourth-grade teacher again was Roman Catholic. His current teacher was Jewish.
So, which prayer should my son pray when at school?
I explained to my Dad that I felt perfectly fine with my son's religious training taking place at home and church and his secular training at home and at public school. He could survive without a prayer while there. If he felt "outsecure" as he would put it, he could pray privately.
My father seemed to understand that we no longer lived in a “Mayberry” setting where everyone had the same background and practiced their beliefs in the same manner.
So Mr. Beck, which America do we restore? Ms. Palin, whose values do we go for? Tea Partiers, who will pay for the education of your children when your schools fold because you needed tax breaks?
In his book, The American Experience, Henry Bamford Parkes, remarks that our country survived because it existed as a “state of the mind” rather than an actual reality, in the thoughts of the early settlers. They had a dream of what this country could be and rather be crushed by the reality of what they encountered day by day, they held on fast to the dream. America for them was a state of mind, not a state of being.
What happened to “give me your tired, your poor, your huddled masses?”
The “state of the mind” of the early settlers and the sentiments found on the base of the Statue Of Liberty will do far more for this country than the crazy reality mentality of “me, mine, and ours” currently running rampant.
The little ones in Texas – my grandchildren – have started to a new pre-school. I had worried about separation anxiety for the younger of the two, the redhead. Last year everyday for her meant tears as she was left in her classroom.
But surprise, no such angst now.
In an almost apologetic moment, she said to her mother, “Mommy, you know I don’t cry anymore when I go to school.” Maybe that was meant to console her Mom as well as to give credence to a good thing.
Her brother, only 15 months older, has transitioned as well. He can now be on the playground at the same time as his mom’s class without anything more than a wave. Last year, he ran away to find mommy on a daily basis; once tunneling beneath the security fence to “walk home.” Such actions prompted the Frustrated Old Man of “syndrome” fame to research GPS chip implants. They do it for dogs, but is it inhumane for children?
Maturity is bringing a sense of wisdom and security in Texas.
The new school is also adding a new dimension to their world of counting, colors, and letters.
You may recall from earlier blogs that the Dallas folks are in a “searching” mode with respect to their practice of their religious faith. However, with the new school being based in an established Methodist church near their home, the little ones are beginning to experience a more “hands-on” approach to religious education.
On Friday of each week, the four-year old class has “chapel time” in the sanctuary of the church. Generally, the minister of the church will come, greet the kids, they will sing, and then hear a short Bible story. I am certain that the stories will be adjusted seasonally, much like the liturgy on Sunday.
The first “chapel time” happened this past week and since the minister was otherwise involved, a nice “grandma type” volunteer met with the kids instead. She used this time to point out the various architectural elements that are important to underscore the worship experience.
Now, the four-year old is already into bell towers. From his seat by the window in the SUV, he points out each one he sees. He does a remarkable imitation of their sound. His mother also uses this to teach the concept of high and low sounds as he mimics the bells.
Being inside the sanctuary of the church was a totally new experience for him.
So with the two classes of youngsters seated near the steps of the Chancel, the volunteer proceeded to explain to the children what they were seeing around them. She pointed out the banners, the pulpit, the altar, brass candlesticks, stained glass windows, and then the Cross.
“This is a symbol of our faith. It is called a cross.”
“I thought cymbals were round like a big metal plate,” said one energetic listener.
“Cymbals make loud crashing sounds,” said another. Realizing they were confusing the word symbol with cymbal, she hurriedly added, “No, this is the cross on which Jesus died.”
The silence was deadening. Pardon the play on words.
Now, the first thing you learn in dealing with young, impressionable minds is that you avoid anything traumatic. You don’t sing songs about Grandma moving to Peru like Phoebe Buffay on “Friends.”
The “Aunt Bea” lady hurriedly changed the subject and mentioned that there were two beautiful windows that could only be seen when the lights were turned on behind them. So she went to make that happen.
When she was out of sight, my grandson stood up and in a loud questioning voice asked of his teacher, “Mrs. Moss, why did Jesus die on that cross.”
Of course, that is a question beyond the grasp of his young age.
However, it got me to thinking. It has been a week of hearing hatred spewing from the mouths of people like the Quran burning Terry Wood, Newt Gingrich, the mosque protesters at “Ground Zero,” the Tea-Party enthusiasts who want to get us “Back to God,” and yes, Mama Grizzly herself. Weary of it all, I found myself asking: “folks, why did Jesus die on that cross?”
What did it all mean?
In the 1971 MASS that Leonard Bernstein composed for the opening of the Kennedy Center in our nation’s capitol, there is a song, “God Said,” whose lyrics seem appropriate for the ugly vitriol which has become the current image of many who claim Christianity. One verse goes:
God made us the boss God gave us the cross We turned it into a sword To spread the Word of the Lord We use His holy decrees To do whatever we please
As I think of the reason for Jesus and the Cross, I find it boils down to one simple word – love. Love, acceptance, forgiveness, compassion, charity – it is what our faith is supposed to be about. These are characteristics inherent in all the great religions of the world.
I am also reminded of the passage from Paul’s letter to the Corinthians:
“Though I speak with the tongues of men and of angels, and have not love, I am become as a sounding brass or a clanging cymbal.”
To my grandson, I say, “there are a lot of people around who profess something they cannot seem to be able to live – we will call them ‘clanging symbols.’”
Sadly, some of the worst offenders have made it a career path.
