My grandfather had a story he liked to tell; about how he came to select music as his vocation.
I'd heard this story discussed a number of times during my childhood. It was one of the many things overheard as family members chatted on weekend outings, at Sunday dinners and summer picnics. They groaned and joked about "that old story" and how he apparently told it in every basic music course he'd ever taught. My grandfather would brandish a sheepish smile and say nothing when it was mentioned. As I got older he started shooting me a conspiratorial wink.
At the age of fourteen, I, for the first time, formally attended the music camp my grandfather founded and ran; and I took his class in basic music theory. On the first day of class, right after introducing himself he launched into it.
Here is the story, as I recall it.
He grew up in a fairly small town in central New York state, not all that far from the college campus where this music camp was held. On one weekend, the summer before his senior year in high school, he told his parents he was going to spend two days and a night camping with a friend.
What he did instead was take up all his money and buy a train ticket to New York City.
His father, the country doctor, would soon send him to college and he wanted to see some of the world that was waiting for him. This was in the 1920s.
He spent the day wandering around the city, seeing the sights, taking it all in. At evening he took in an opera.
His seat in the balcony was good, though off to one side. He liked the show, the lights, the music, the drama. He imagined in his mind all the things that went on in the background to make the show happen; all the preparation and coordination. He could see all the weeks of practicing, set building, costume making, all the preparations that had gone into doing one night's performance. His mind was fascinated.
That fascination, he explained, was the first key that turned his mind to music.
The second key came, surprisingly, from observing the man sitting next to him.
As his attention had explored beyond the stage and he had observed the varying and shifting reactions of the people in the audience; laughter, smiles, seriousness and tears he saw how the show elicited and inspired emotions in watchers, each showing with some of their own personal ways.
As his attention gathered back in contemplation of the things he'd observed his eye caught briefly on the upturned sole of the shoe of the man sitting next to him; one leg crossed up on his knee.
The sole of the shoe had a huge gapping hole in it through which dirty sock was plainly visible.
He confessed feeling a bit stunned by the observation. His mind wondering why a man would spend money on an expensive musical show when he so obviously and desperately needed a new pair of shoes.
His mind worked on that for some time. He snuck peeks at the man's face through out the rest of the show and then contemplated this mystery as he walked back to the train station after the show's ending for a late night ride home.
The man had smiled, watched intently, laughed and seemed concerned, all along with the action of the play, just as everyone else did. When the show ended and the lights came up, the man had the same emotionally invigorated look that the other attending enthusiasts had. He was smiling, friendly, amiable; even offered light banter: "Good show, eh?" and all that.
My grandfather told the class that he realized the awesome power of music that night. In witnessing how one man would suffer days (maybe even days and days) of the frustrating and painful inconveniences of a hole in his shoe in exchange for a few hours of moving entertainment.
He decided right then that music would be a very worthy pursuit.
Hearing that story, in the setting of a class room, was totally different than hearing it lightly alluded to. It was totally impressive; and the majority of the people in the class seemed to share the emotional impact I had felt.
I saw my grandfather in a new light that day. I saw power and inspiration flow from him and into others.
Since he taught music for some forty years, and ran the music camp for thirty. I'll bet close to ten thousand people heard that story. Several of whom, I happen to know found success in music's spheres.
The power of one of his stories.
I got it, Gramps. Thanks!
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Comments: 34
Thank you for sharing
I've always envied those that were fortunate enough to grow up with their grandpa's around. Unfortunatley both of mine were gone way before I was born. :(
Congrats on being Featured(again!)
This story is a wonderful example of your writing and I enjoyed it very much. I hope that you know someday the full significance your writing, how it has inspired other writers like me, and provided a model for style and presentation.
Here is an example:
"As his attention gathered back in contemplation of the things he'd observed his eye caught briefly on the upturned sole of the shoe of the man sitting next to him; one leg crossed up on his knee."
This first few words here are a good example of the fluidity and detail I find so exemplary. Most impressive is your use of this short paragraph as a central transition point in the stories arc, it is imperceptible.
This is a beautiful tribute to your grandfather, Bill.
Thank you!
Passion . . . the basic ingredient for success in my book. Your grandfather no doubt a passionate man. It gives me a chill thinking about all the years that he taught and all the lives that he influenced! It would seem that all great educators find an "exemplary"story that works to get the creative juices of their students flowing.
Even if he'd told the story of the man at the Opera with a hole in his shoe exposing his sock 2000 times, you can be sure that its purpose for being told was as sincere the first time as it was the last!
Thanks for sharing this memory of your grand father. Music can be great nourishment to our soul. Looks like your GF's passion for music and wanderlust made him a compelling teacher. He will be proud of you writing a story about this passion and sharing it with the rest of us.
Cheers.
Thanks for sharing.
Thanks to all for your comments. Since my parents divorced when I was three, and I grew up fatherless until the age of twelve, my grandfather was one of the most important male role models in my life. I was very lucky, as he was a very fine man.
My paternal grandfather passed away before I was born, so I can commiserate a little with the many of you who never had a chance to know your own grandfathers. It's nice to learn stories about them; and hear stories of the grandparents of others.
Oh my, I guess I didn't tell the story quite well enough.
Although my grandfather did not grow up destitute and starving, neither did he grow up well-off.
His father was a country doctor in the 1920s and was most often paid with eggs, produce, hunks of meat, and baked goods. Another story I heard my grandfather tell was of how his father would tear sheets from his ledger books and throw them in the fire to vent his frustration when the family's bills could not be paid on time. Although many of his patients could not afford to pay cash for the healing, sometimes life-saving services received he never denied anyone the help they needed for lack of ability to pay, unlike many of our modern day physicians.
My grandfather did not ride a silver spoon to and through college. He received a scholarship from his church and worked several part-time, music related jobs to supplement what money his parents could afford to contribute to the gaining of his college education.
Also, growing up in a small rural community, this was far from being the first time my grandfather met or interacted with "the poor" as you put it.
This story is supposed to be an example of how people from any walk of life will sacrifice something they need in order to enjoy music's uplifting pleasures; and how realizing that inspired my grandfather to dedicate his life to being the best music educator he could be. He wanted to spread the joy of music.
Since that is not apparent to every reader, then this piece still needs some work.
I thank you for your comment.
I'm with your grandpa 100%. It sounds like he realized that music is better medicine than anything man has ever invented ( For my two cents, nobody creates music, the best we can do is receive the notes, melodies, and rhythms that come from some magical spirit out there somewhere ).
I would have loved to know your grandpa. I would have had a blast comparing "notes" with him.
Nice job.
Re. the hole in the shoe, it's alse entirely possible the chap was a Wasp and eccentric and dind't give a damn. England and Ireland is full of them. An old women I knew came from a very wealthy family back in Northern Ireland and she used to paint her hat for family weddings--she'd take out her old shiny straw hat and paint it in a different color rather than buy a new one.
Oral history is so very important.