My life has been full of disappointments. Disappointments for me. Disappointments of me. The bright side of all that is that it has prepared me for The Big One: the disappointment of seeing how easily the American citizenry of this generation have sold out the dream, of what Ronald Reagan called 'the shining city on a hill'. But first things first.
And to clarify from the start: I have also had some great moments in my life. One was winning a substantial scholarship that allowed me to go to Stanford University (as a pre-med). And even 'peak experiences,' in fact. Mostly on the basketball court; when I made some unconscious (or superconscious??) shots and moves, that were stunning to me, too. And a very early-on 'win' when I won the award for having read the most books in my class during my second-grade year in school (The award: A copy of 'Old Mother West Wind'. I can remember even taking it with me when we moved from small-town Payette, Idaho down to a little larger-town Long Beach, California. A 'win' in its way, too.) …But:
An early disappointment in my life was when, as the pitcher for my 6th grade softball team against the other 6th grade classes, I couldn't get the ball over the plate often enough for the batters to have much of a whack at it, before I walked them. I don't know how I ended up being the pitcher anyway; that position wasn't a natural calling for me. I suppose it was a matter of attrition: No one else on the team stepping forward for the job.1
However, I was constantly being thrust by my peers into positions of leadership, or at least, responsibility; a situation that I didn't fully understand, or learn to do a very good job of. There was the time, in my school grade year just before the one mentioned above, when a few of us 'more advanced' fifth graders were put into a special class with sixth graders, and somehow, for whatever reason unbeknownst to me, they all elected me Captain of the ship. (That 'special' teacher had a maritime background in her family.) I was apparently a disaster in the role - hell, I didn't know what I was supposed to do, thrust all the way up there straight from the ranks (and the lowest of those to boot) as I was - because she dissolved the position shortly after that debacle. (Mine; and, I suspect, hers, expecting a different outcome. For reasons best known to her...Expecting different outcomes…there's a theme there…but to continue.)
Ah; but the biggest debacle - speaking of - of my young life had to do with 'La Paloma' - The Dove. I will explain. (In the interests of the subject at hand. Not out of any particular desire, or need, of mine to.)2
Another thrusting of me into strange territory for me - i.e., over my child's head - occurred around about that same time, when I had begun to take clarinet lessons. And a word of explanation about that is germane to this telling, of various foibles of my young life; for it was based on another mystery to me of said young life. One day, when I was innocently minding my own business, in about that same, fifth grade,3 a strange woman (meaning to my awareness of the ladies in the school) came up to me and said that 'she' thought that I should learn to play a musical instrument, and which one would I like to learn? It was much of a muchness to me (and why me, anyway?? I was to get a clue later on).4 Come along; follow the women in my young life...She took me into an otherwise empty classroom, where a - apparently her - fledgling band (of older students in the school) was practicing, and had me listen to the various instruments. (Including the drums; which, I admit, held an interest for me. But moving right along, under her tutelage:) Whereupon she announced that she thought that I would like to learn to play the clarinet; and would I like that??
I dunno. I guess so…
And that was that, then; settled, and packaged. An old-style metal clarinet appeared in my life, and I started taking weekly lessons from a man - Mr. Ohlendorf; as fitting a name for a musical instructor/conductor as I had ever heard5 - who was teaching a few kids on various instruments. I would catch the bus in the early afternoons on the appointed day (i think it was a Thursday, if you're interested in details) and go to another elementary school where he held his classes. To say, more clearly: held his free lessons. I was to find out later - the hard way; read on - that he had talked the School District Commission into paying him to give lessons to kids whose parents couldn't afford private lessons for their kids.
'The hard way' came about when of a subtle sudden in one of my sessions with him (actually, at the end of it, while the other kids were packing up their instruments. A girl learning the flute, as I recall; and a guy on some other instrument, the identity of which I forget right off hand. It may or may not come to me. This was around 70 years ago now, you understand; and not the best of memories to begin with) he came up to me and quietly/privately asked if I would like to play a piece 'for some people," as I think he put it; or at least, words to that effect, to me, at the time.
Well; yes, I guess. Why not.
I was to find out Why Not when The Day came. Somehow I had ended up choosing - or he had chosen it for me; I forget that detail, of this excruciatingly horrendous experience. The only major detail of that whole experience that my brain seems to have chosen to forget; the rest is in indelible ink, as they say - a shortish piece titled La Paloma. I remember asking him at the time if I had to learn it by heart (such was my naivete). Not making a big deal of it, he replied that the other of his pupils there6 would be playing their pieces that way, 'but whatever I was most comfortable with,' or words to that effect. To me. At the time.
Picturing - if I did at all; the scene being rather irrelevant to me at the time - a small gathering of people presumably mostly of the parents of the kids involved, at what I figured must be what was called a recital, I dutifully started practicing my piece, and got it to the point where I went through it a couple of times by heart. The Day came, and I caught the bus (actually, two; needing to transfer once to get there. If only…well. To continue) to the school where the 'graduation' event was to take place.7 I was early - having made sure that my bus connections worked out okay - and spent the intervening time sitting in the school's musical practice room. (School had just finished for the year; there was no one else there.) I'm not sure why I didn't think to break out my clarinet and go through my piece a time or two, in preparation. I guess I figured that I had it down well enough…whatever, I fell asleep, and woke up just in time, and walked to the designated space for the little event. Which turned out to be in the school's auditorium-cum-cafetaria.
A big auditorium.
And it was full. Of people. And some of Mr. Ohlendorf's other - star - pupils.
Including, then, me.
Little unprepared me, and for what was to come.
I was, literally, stunned. I can feel it still to this day.
'My god,' I can remember thinking; and in the illustrious words of our present day's Vice President, which were most appropriate to that occasion as well, from my awed perspective: "This is a really big fucking deal."
'Who are all these people?' I can recall wondering. Before things began. His other - star - pupils started trooping up onto the - real - stage, one by one; playing their solos, each to dutiful applause, and then coming back down in front, with the rest of us, star, pupils.
And then it was my turn.
And I walked up onto the stage, with my - hopefully - trusty clarinet in hand, and announced the title of my piece - to that huge roomful of faces - and put the mouthpiece to my lips. And -
nothing.
La Paloma had flown the coop. In front of all. Those. People.
I couldn't' remember how the darn thing started.
If I could just get it going, the rest would follow, I recall thinking.
So I tried again. But -
nothing.
I took my clarinet out of my mouth, and put it back in again; thinking - hoping - that the action itself could - might - start a wave of brain cells firing. You put the mouthpiece in your mouth, and you start playing, and that's how it goes; right?
Not. Always.
I was mortified.
Silence. Dead. Silence.8
I mumbled something, to that vast sea of faces, to the effect that I couldn't remember how it started, and went down and back to my seat. All. In. Silence.
Mr. Ohlendorf, why didn't you tell me…
Mr. Ohlendorf, why didn't you…
But then, I had to admit to myself:
It was my fault. I basically came unprepared properly.
I remember having the presence of mind to go up to Mr. Ohlendorf afterwards and apologize for letting him down. I don't remember what he said in reply. All I know is, I wanted to get out of there just as soon as I possibly could…
At least I came away from the experience ultimately knowing that he forgave me, to some extent, because during my junior high years he would come to our school occasionally and direct the orchestra, and talk to me civilly - and even singled me out once, in session, asking me if I would like to learn to play the bassoon. I was a Junior at the time, about Third Chair, to a couple of Seniors. Our orchestra had no such 'big deal' bassoon player at the time, and I think he was trying to get me to have another go at 'starring'. Not really needing the sotto voce help of my clarinet-section buddies in my decision-making, I declined the offer, and - potential - honor.
And between him and my school musical instructor,9 they tried during those three years to get me to go to Music Summer Camp; where they all had a great time, presumably, playing orchestrally and otherwise. (And got to know each other better, consequently; so that I was sort of the odd man out in the orchestra, I realized later on. But by then, I had other interests than just for the school orchestra. Especially sports. Plus, I spent a couple of weeks during the summers at 'Y' Camp anyway. My mom, trying to be a good (single) mom, I am sure, as a first intention, at least, having bought me a 'Y' membership.10 Also to get me out from under her feet during those times in the summers, so that she could go play, too. Another story. (That she never told me specifically about. I had to put the dots together to make it out, understand that side of her.)
Anyhoo…
Disappointments. I've had a few, myself...
And then there was the time, in high school, when -
Oh well. This is enough for now. To make the point:
that I'm just like you.
Been there. Done that. Got that t-shirt.
That
we're all in this together.
But, fair warning:
Don't try to walk me.
I'm not above having a good whack at it regardless.
---
footnotes:
1 Later on in my baseball career - and only so to speak - I played first base. That suited me better, was more my style. Catching. Not pitching.
2 As Henny Youngman was wont to say: 'Take my wife. Please.'
3 before I moved up - was, moved up - to that special 5-6 class. Or the year earlier. Whichever: under Miss Englesmith (as I recall); who became Mrs. Butterworth during my time under her keeping. (We kids figured that it wasn't much of an improvement, however she herself felt about it.)
4 I may as well include here that later on in my life I figured out that it must have been my mother's doing, at work behind the passing scenes of my life. Like the time, the year before this one, when I came home from school one day, early in the school year, and must have complained that I didn't like my new teacher and the class I was in, because 'the next thing I knew,' the principal had me transferred to another class.
The principal!? Me???,,,I never joined those two particular dots together until years later, when there were more to add to the picture, forming.
My mom…well. That's another subject.
5 And I remember thinking, Did adults choose certain careers because of their names???
6 his best, of his freebies, was the deal, I was later to understand; to prove to his audience - whoever all they were - that their money was being well spent. But that's getting ahead of myself, in the telling of this story. For trying to get it over with as quickly as possible, for reasons which will become very clear very shortly now.
Gawd, the memory…
Anyway. Back into the breach.
7 It turned out to be at the junior high school where I would end up going, in a year or so's time. And where I was first in the Band, and then in the Orchestra. And during my year in the band I was First Chair in the clarinet section. So I survived my ordeal; and there is life after humiliation. But as I say: moving on…
8 I can only imagine what was going through their minds. And feeling bodies…
9 A good man, by the name of Mr. James Mitchell; a youngish, athletically trim, dapper fellow, who lived by the beach and always came back every new school year after the summer break with a deep tan. He helped give me a - likewise - deep appreciation of good music. And even tried to get me to 'star' as well, by selecting a piece for our school-year all-city competition, in my last year there, which featured a clarinet solo right smack in the middle of it. The piece was called Scheherazade, by Rimsky-Korsakov; and that clarinetist would be - moi.
I enjoyed playing it in rehearsals. Right smack in the middle of a support team of an orchestra as I would be; the humiliation of my last solo attempt still burning in my brain, and face, even after all those years…
But - another humbling experience was to come. Not the challenge to me, and my First Chair seat, by a guy who didn't like being in my shadow, near the end of the school year, and close to that school-completing competition. Whether he did it particularly because he wanted to play that solo himself or not, I don't know. But (a) Mr Mitchell chose to stay with me in that challenge (we played that solo, as I recall); and (b) the guy got his big chance anyway, when I failed to show up for the competition in time.
A bit of a story; the essence of it: I was at a Lion's Club luncheon, honoring the students chosen from each junior high school as 'the Outstanding Graduating Ninth Grader' for their school. The orchestral competition was being held that same afternoon. I figured that I would have time enough to get over to it (at a high school in town) in time; but the luncheon dragged on. And on…I began to get restless - what were these adults in my life up to, that I couldn't count on them for decent support in my growing-up years??? - and finally whispered to my mom that I thought I had to go. She drove me quickly to the school as I changed into my uniform in the car, and I ran around to the back of the auditorium building (me and auditoriums…) to the stage door, and went in - and found that my school orchestra had just gone on stage for their - our - number, and had already started playing.
I was, again, mortified in my life. But I long ago decided that, since I stopped playing the clarinet anyway at that time (too busy during my high school days doing other things), and that guy really wanted to play that solo, that it was all fair enough, in the great scheme of things.
Thank you, Mr. Mitchell, for some enjoyable years in my life. Sorry to have let you down, right at the end. But who knows what all is behind these things.
Life. 'Tiz a puzzlement…
10 Where I honed my basketball-playing skills. Spending hours on their basketball court, practicing all manner of shots. My type of solo…
(Getting to the point where one day, during a pickup game, some guy said to me, suitably impressed: "You must be the best shot in the county." And I replied, only half-facetiously: "Only on these courts.")
But I digress…
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