Leave it to music, the universal language, to teach us how to live better. Long before technology, it was pretty clear that people sounded good when they sang together. There are many explanations — strength in numbers, an averaging of tones, bad singers influenced by the good ones (a raising of the bar), the pleasing sound of imperfection. They probably all can be true at the same time. So much so, that they invented a way on instruments to create this same tonal pleasure. It’s called the chorus effect.
Hammond introduced the Model B-C in 1936 to lock in true organ tone once and for all. A Hammond Model B-C organ. Using a second tonewheel system with slightly detuned notes, the B-C’s onboard chorus generator fulfilled Hammond’s vision of providing a richer, harmonized sound. Thus, chorus as an effect was born.
I can feel it in my sketchbook. One bird is nice. But a page. A flock! I can feel the chorus of the birdsong. And therein lies the wow! Even with the inevitable smudge, the handprint, the slight splatter, I think it adds to the beauty. This coming together. This gathering. I hope we can do it in our daily lives. Oh, how we need to gather. To find ourselves in the universal song. With all of our imperfections, we are still capable of “a richer” more “harmonized sound.” I want to be a part of that greater song. Can you hear it?
Other than the birds in the trees, Bud Christianson was the first to demonstrate the pure joy of music. He wasn’t just teaching it, he was living it. He directed the band at Jefferson Senior High. The only faculty member to drop the mister, we called him Christy. It suited his swagger.
This was long before Fame, Glee, and frankly before most of us had cable television. But I, we, knew we were in the presence of something special. So it shouldn’t have come as a surprise when he told us before the spring concert that not only were we going to play our instruments, but we were going to sing. But we’re the band, we’re not the choir, some questioned. “But listen to that music,” he said, “how can we help but sing?! And stand up when you do!” His enthusiasm was infectious. It did feel good! So in between puffs on my clarinet, I stood, jumped beside my section (I would have flown if I could have) and I, we, sang with all of our hearts. There was no band. No choir. No audience. No separation whatsoever. Because the music!!!
Have we lost the ability to hear? To celebrate our differences? I’m not ready to let it go. I must stand. We must stand! Can’t you feel it? We have to be in this together. United. What do you have without the music?
“Cooler days will be coming way sooner than you think.”
I knew my mother was right, but I was bound and determined to wear my one new fall outfit for the first day of seventh grade at Central Junior High School. It had been on lay-a-way at Herberger’s Department store since the end of July. I went with my mom every store visit, the clerk letting me try it on each time as my mom paid down a little bit more. The ensemble, a word I had just learned, was a pair of chestnut gaucho pants with a striped matching turtleneck and knee length socks. In the comfort of the air-conditioned fitting room, I marveled in the three-way mirrors, knowing, I think for the first time, the feeling my mother had when doing the same. You can call it vanity, but I don’t think so.
I watched her get dressed each morning. Piece by piece. It was an exercise in confidence. From shoes to earrings, it was a path to get out the door. A boost. A head-start, some days in an inconceivable race.
I attended sixth grade in that same school, but our classrooms were placed in an upstairs corner. We didn’t interact with the seventh through ninth graders. We used the side entrance, across from the Police Station. Let out only for lunch and gym, we were nearly invisible. But not this year. This year we were going to be a part of the Junior High School Class! Of course at the bottom, but in the race nonetheless. Everything would be brand new. I knew I needed those gaucho pants. My mother knew it as well. She didn’t put up a fight.
The Superintendent’s office that she worked in was located in that same school, just under the sixth grade classrooms. I rode with her to work. We had entered the same side door for a year.
This first day of my seventh grade year, I got dressed in her bedroom. She had the only full length mirror in the house. We drove through town with the windows rolled down. But she didn’t turn on our usual street. “What are you doing?” I asked, “Aren’t you going to park where you normally do?” “Yes, I will,” she said, “but after I drop you off. Today, you’re going through the front entrance.” I couldn’t stop smiling as she pulled up in front of the big double doors. I didn’t even notice the beads of sweat near my baretted bangs. I waved goodbye. I saw my reflection in the glass trophy case that welcomed the students. I guess it was meant for aspiration, but I already had mine — it, she, was driving to park by the side door.
