Prove it on the bench

I am not an athlete. But my undergraduate college, Duke University, includes me on their list of "student-athlete" alumni in, of all things, Swimming and Diving.

Therein lies a tale.

There were only two fixed requirements for graduation from Duke in those days: one had to pass a course in Freshman English, or place out of it (as I did, with a perfect 800 score on the verbal part of the SAT), and pass a swimming test, the equivalent of the Red Cross Beginner's level. That was not so straightforward. I had taken a beginning swimming class as a child and failed miserably. I did not even attempt the test during freshman orientation; I stood at the side with a handful of others and was enrolled in a semester-long class in the subject.

Even after a full semester of (I think) three hour-long sessions per week, I still was unable to pass the test (I alone of the class of a dozen or so young men), so I took a second semester. It was fascinating, and I thoroughly enjoyed it despite my humiliating lack of ability. Duke was (and is) primarily a school for elite prep school graduates, most of them white and from wealthy backgrounds. But the swimming classes consisted mostly of disadvantaged African-Americans who, unlike their country-club peers, had not been able to go to swimming pools -- many of which were still segregated when they were children. I made friends in this class that I probably would not have otherwise made.

The teacher was W. S. "Jack" Persons, the head swimming coach, by then an old man nearing the end of a distinguished career.

It was only much later that I learned just how distinguished he was, one of the legends in the sport. He had been swimming coach at Duke for upwards of forty years, and had led the team to championships and undefeated seasons back in the 1930's, before the non-scholarship Duke team fell behind the conference schools such as N.C. State and Chapel Hill whose swimmers were on athletic scholarships. He had also coached the Duke Lacrosse Team for twenty-six years, building it into a national power in the 1950's. Perhaps more significant still (and I believe it was to Coach Persons), he had taught many thousands of people to swim, including Navy pilots during the Second World War, pioneering in the training of survival swimming.

So here he was, this legendary head coach, patiently teaching beginners to swim. Over the course of two semesters, I got to know and respect him, and I think he viewed me as a challenge. At the end of that second semester when I finally passed the test, he invited me to be a student manager with the men's swimming team the next year. I was very glad to accept.

My work as the lowest assistant manager consisted mostly of helping to mix and serve the Gatorade, passing out (and laundering) towels in immense quantity, clocking lap times, straightening things up after practice.

I held the swimmers in immense awe. These young men, all of them carrying full and challenging academic loads, came to the pool several afternoons a week and worked hard. Unlike athletes in the prestigious sports, they received little recognition. Few people came to the meets, and we lost many of them, sometimes by huge margins. Looking back at the records, I see that we lost to N.C. State by a score of 91-22. We finished 1-4 in the conference one year and 0-4 the next, though both years we posted overall winning records.

There are many similarities between athletics and music. A sport such as swimming that is essentially individual is much like the work of a keyboard musician. The hours of laps in the pool are comparable to the hours on the organ bench and piano bench. No matter how hard you work, there is always someone better than you - faster, stronger, more talented. But that does not matter so much, in the end; you are "competing" against yourself as much as any opponent, seeking to improve your personal best. For a swimmer, it is measured with a stopwatch; for a musician, it is less tangible but equally real. All these years that I have been on the bench, I have sought to play better, to improve my "personal best."

One of the sayings in the current Duke Swimming and Diving program is "prove it in the pool." In music, as in athletics, talk is empty; one must "prove it" by one's playing. Every Sunday, there is a sense in which I must "prove it on the bench." And every Sunday, there is a strong possibility of failure, no matter how well I have prepared.

Because of my tenuous connection with the program, I receive regular updates and newsletters. They seek to make me feel like part of a family that includes not just the swimmers but the famous athletes who have come through Duke in other programs, mostly in basketball. I find it interesting that the department has gone to such lengths to keep me connected, while so far as I can tell, the Department of Music could care less whether I ever existed. I believe they could learn from the athletes on this.

For Christmas, my wife got me a Duke Swimming and Diving T-shirt. Although I have little right to wear it, I do so with pride. And I still have my Red Cross Beginning Swimming card, signed by Jack Persons.

But don't throw me in the pool.

Sundays, and a Footnote on the Widor

Some time ago, I found that I was spending time Sunday afternoon or evening writing about the day at the expense of my work -- for examples, see the index in the sidebar under "Sundays." I would spend an hour or more writing (especially after Evensong), and then realize that it was 9 pm and I had not started the next week's bulletins, which I must have in place before going home that night.

I resolved to stay away from the Music Box on Sundays until my work was done, or at least everything that could not be postponed. I am not sure that this has been a Good Thing; in retrospect, I see that the process of writing helped me come to terms with the day's music and liturgy. I think also that these "Sunday" essays are an important part of what I hope to present in the Music Box, which is a picture of what it is to be a Church Musician.

Thus, I attempt an account of this past Sunday, several days after the fact (Tuesday evening, as I write).

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I was worried about the music, especially the Bach and the Vaughan Williams. I always am, and rarely sleep well on Saturday. On this Saturday, I got to bed at a decent hour, but the phone rang about 8:30; my wife's uncle is back in the hospital. She was on the phone for most of the next hour with her aunt and then with her parents, whom her aunt asked her to call. I used to unplug the telephone at bedtime, until my mother-in-law insisted that we be On Call -- with precisely this sort of occurrence in mind. Grudgingly, I admit that she is right.

So, I did not get up at 4:00 as I had hoped; it was more like 4:20. That precious twenty minutes was later chopped out of my practice time before Matins.

I had worked as precinct election chair for a Tuesday election, so had missed a day's practice that week, and I had been focused on the previous week's Eucharist and Choral Evensong before that. There were two student recitals this week, and I gave much of my Wednesday and Friday practice time to them for their rehearsals. Thus, I found myself Friday afternoon with the prelude from the "Great" G Major Prelude and Fugue of Bach. It was fingered, but I had not yet taken it to the organ, and I could not; the student rehearsal was up in the church. I gave it a First Workout at the piano in the choir room and hoped for the best.

On Saturday, I worked steadily at the organ, with Second Workouts on the Prelude and Fugue, the accompaniment for "O Clap Your Hands" (Vaughan Williams), and a tricky hymn accompaniment by Carol Doran ("Make your prayer and music one," a terrific hymn by Thomas Troeger that fits the lesson from Acts, wherein Paul and Silas sing and pray at midnight in the Phillippian jail). It was, to some degree, the First Workout for the Prelude, the first (and only) with the pedal part.

I needed that twenty minutes on Sunday morning. By the time I reviewed the hymns and the RVW accompaniment, fifteen minutes remained before Matins. I gave the Prelude a single slow play-through on 8' flutes, and got about halfway through the Fugue in the same manner. That was it. In the event, the Fugue went well, but the Prelude was sloppy in places. It would have been better with more practice, either a proper Two Workouts at the organ or a better Sunday warmup. At least I gave it a spirited reading (I hope).

But if something was to be below standard ("Slightly egg-shaped," as Simon Lole used to say at the RSCM Course), I will accept it in the prelude rather than the choral music or hymnody. All of that went well, some of it quite well, including a communion improvisation. We closed the 11:00 service with Llanfair, "Hail the day that sees him rise," and it was thoroughly exciting to hear the congregation sing it. The choir did a fine job with the RVW, as well.

This was the final Sunday of the season for the Youth Choir, which sang at the 8:45 service. They did a South African song, Bawo, Thixo Somandla, which some of us learned at an RSCM Course a few years ago. The choir spread across the front of the church behind the portable altar to sing, complete with some of the motions appropriate to the song. It was great. One of our high school choristers was the Preacher for the day (it was Youth Sunday, along with all else); he included in his sermon the One Rule that we use in choir (and which I borrowed from the Logos System of Christian Formation, something about which I should write someday) - "You are a child of God, and I will treat you that way." He has, it appears, been listening.

The Fugue at the end of the 11:00 service bounced along appropriately, and the morning was done! There was a doctoral violin recital that evening, but for the first time since mid-March, I had time for a relaxed dinner on Sunday. I went to my favorite eatery; the university student cafeteria. For $9.00, all you can eat! During the week, they serve many thousands of meals daily and an oldster like me had better be on his toes to avoid being run over. Sundays are a "light" day for them, and I was able to get through the free-flow cafeteria area in one piece and find a quiet table in a corner. I always fill one plate from the huge salad bar, a second plate from the hot table (which always includes vegan and vegetarian choices), pile a couple of pizza slices on top, and finish the meal with Blue Bunny ice cream. I had four scoops of vanilla.

After that, I walked (or more precisely, waddled) back to the parking ramp and rested for an hour or so in the Honda, up on the rooftop level. This is a delight when the weather is suitable, for I love being in the car, even just to sit and watch the clouds and the birds in the treetops. I did that, drifting delightfully between sleep and wakefulness.

By then, it was nearly 4:00 and time to open the church for the violinist. She played a terrific program: Bach, Mendelssohn, Brahms. I heard most of it, and helped her mother with the reception. They did a fine job of cleaning up afterwards (unlike some), including a good vacuuming and taking out the trash. I got them out the door by 9:30 with heartfelt congratulations and good wishes, and locked up.

It is always a delight and relief to lock the door after the last person is out.

But there were still Bulletins To Do. I brewed some green tea and did them (instead of what I wanted, which would have been to write this essay), and got out the door myself about 11:00.

It was a Good Day. I am terribly proud of both the Youth and Adult Choirs. On balance, I was content with my playing for the day; I can say with honesty that it was the best I could do.

Epilogue:
Upon returning to my desk on Wednesday, I found a note that had arrived by U.S. Mail from my organ teacher, Dr. Donald McDonald, in regard to a recording of my noontime recital the Wednesday of Easter Week. He wrote:

I have listened carefully twice through the symphony (and will return to it often), and I offer my sincere congratulations to you on the beauty of the playing, and on your maintaining your skills and very special musical artistry through these years. Your understanding of the Widor style is so gratifying to hear. As I understand it, and I once knew well one of his students, the music need not be hurried, and that is exactly what you do. You allow it to unfold and develop in such, to my ears, a logical way...

I regularly consider my playing to be inadequate, as is clear from this journal. This is probably true of almost all musicians. Our playing is never adequate; it never (or rarely, at best) lives up to the musical ideas of the composers we try to play, or our own improvisatory ideas.

But, inadequate as we are, we must continue. In my darker moments, I am encouraged by the Fellowship certificate from the A.G.O. that hangs above my desk. At least for the one day of June 30, 1995, I played at a sufficiently high level to be recognized by my peers as a professional, and demonstrated a reasonable grasp of music theory and history. I am certain that I am a better musician and organist now than I was in those days.

Part of the responsibility of a Teacher is to speak truth to his students. Dr. McDonald always did so, and I am sure he still does, for that responsibility does not end with the lessons. To read such words from him about my playing means much. I am grateful that he took the time to write them.

Soli Deo gloria.

A New Car

A couple of years ago, Mrs. C.'s 1981 Toyota Tercel reached the point where it was no longer safe to drive due to body rust and expensive brake repairs. We have since gone with one car, our (formerly my) 1996 Honda Civic. It has not been without inconvenience, especially when I head down the highway to an RSCM Course or a trip Out East, leaving her to walk wherever she needs to go. Sundays are a weekly inconvenience; the transit buses do not run, and I must be dressed up for work (which precludes cycling), so I drive into town. She has Sundays off every other weekend, and is left without transportation.
Thus, she wanted a new car. There were further convincing reasons:

- Her parents are getting older and she is likely to need to drive down to visit them more frequently, perhaps on short notice. She is increasingly uncomfortable in driving the Civic on a long highway trip, or in the traffic of a major city.
- She thinks, rightly, that one could question the safety of driving to the RSCM Course with other people's children in a seventeen-year-old vehicle, one which lacks modern safety features.
- It has worked well for us to have two cars: one fairly new, the other quite a bit older. That way, we are not replacing two cars at once, or even in the same decade. The Civic remains in good condition and should suffice as a second car for many years - but it is time to add a newer car.
- She brought her Tercel into our marriage and never put my name on the title, nor did she permit me to drive it very much until we had been married twenty years or so and it was becoming an Old Car. It is time for her to have another car of her own.

Despite the way this may sound, I concur with the decision. It was incumbent upon me, however, to keep my mouth shut. I tend to be a Know-It-All. I always have, even in childhood when I would drive my teachers and parents to distraction. I am pleased to say that I mostly succeeded. Last week, we purchased a red 2013 Toyota Corolla. Although I was with her when she bought the car (and I ended up taking care of such details as getting a cashier's check from the bank and arranging for insurance), I said little and was careful to not disagree with anything she said. It helped that I was able to do so in all honesty, for I agree with her choice of vehicle. And (again), This Is Not My Car. It is hers.

Or (perhaps) ours; she put my name on the title along with hers. I suppose that means she intends to keep me around.

And she not only offers to let me drive it Out East this summer, she insists. I can drive it carefully and at varying speeds on the "blue highways" that I love, properly breaking it in (although they claim that cars no longer need such babying in their first few thousand miles), and be fully used to it before going to the RSCM Course later in the summer. I feel guilty about this; why should I have the pleasure of driving the New Car? But she does not view long road trips as a pleasure. Aside from necessary trips to see her parents, she intends to use the car strictly in town and for short day trips, which is how she used her old Tercel.

I will be fearful of putting the First Scratch on it, or getting the upholstery dirty. And I still love our Civic; I would rather drive it, on the whole. I continue to trust it implicitly on the highway, or in any circumstance.

But it will be fun to drive a New Car, for the first time in seventeen years.

And, very possibly, the last time. It occurred to both of us in the days following that this will probably be the last time we purchase an automobile, barring accidents. The Civic probably has another ten or fifteen years in it. By then, we will be retired (I hope!), and we can get by with just the Corolla. And by the time it wears out some time in the 2040's, we will be dead, or so old that we ought not to be driving.

That assumes that there will be fuel for motor vehicles, a proposition that I consider extremely doubtful over the long term.

In the meantime, I will enjoy the ride. Long automobile trips are among my favorite activities, right up there with playing the organ or singing. I love our Honda; I can see that I will love our Toyota as well. After I got home with it and parked it in the apartment parking lot, I repeatedly went to the bedroom window and looked out at it, all shiny and red and new. I am carefully reading the owner's manuals -- a stack of five books, not far short of a thousand pages. There is even a thick manual just for the sound system. I can remember the manual for my first car, a 1976 Civic - a little booklet of about twenty pages in broken English-from-Japanese. Times have changed.

They have indeed: the salesman was probably bemused with us, for he had to explain to us how to use a car key that has push buttons on it to open and lock the doors. He began talking about "bluetooth capability" until I gently observed that we do not have cell phones. "Oh," he said, at a loss for words. "Well, it is there if you ever get one."

It is a marvel to me to get behind the wheel of a car and drive, whether it is a simple trip down to the church on Sunday or a journey of a thousand miles. I am thankful to be living in such a time, thankful for the engineering of these vehicles -- I have been under the hood of the Civic enough to hold its design in high esteem, and I have no doubt that the new Toyota is equally fine. More complex, certainly; that worries me a little. I am thankful for the fossil fuel that undergirds all of this. What a magnificent gift it is from our Creator! There are responsibilities that accompany this or any gift, but it must begin with thanksgiving.