Dickie Conducts Himself Well

The PTA meeting ended and assorted parents and teachers returned from the Home Economics building to the Chapel in the High School; they towed the little children behind them. The elementary and high school kids were already there; we’d been treated to a movie. All of us waited to hear a concert.

That year, the Methodist Church of the North sent to Pittman Center a bonus teacher, a second music teacher. Poor Miss Wakeman must have felt sad indeed to think the Elders had to send another music teacher, because for years she had been the only one needed. But there we were, graced with Ms. Yokum. Miss Wakeman continued to teach the high school chorus. She gave me piano lessons as well, but I cannot, for the life of me, figure out what she did with the rest of her time.

Ms. Yokum directed the marching band (another quite wonderful story, indeed). She taught some music over in the elementary school as well, especially a rhythm band. And that is where we came in, that night.  For our concert. The rhythm band soon would play.

The parents, little tykes in hand and still talking to each other, came into the Chapel and found seats in a clutch. The elementary students ran down to the front rows. They flapped the seats up and down, moved from one to another, not sure of the greater importance: to be able to see better, or to be next to the most popular person. Seventh and eighth graders inched in almost sideways. They had no difficulty with that question—obviously, proximity to the popular person held priority, but who was it, that minute? The young adults of high school age either sauntered in alone, as they looked for prey, or oozed through the door molded together, already hunted down and lost—they thought—forever. Finally, the faculty closed ranks and shut the doors to signal silence.

All eyes front. Silence ruled beyond the dark, dusty curtain. I’d been there in that beyond; I knew the floorboards creaked, the dust rose up and filled your nostrils, the curtain actually stunk. But when it opened…. When it opened….  It didn’t matter….  You were….  On stage!

Creak. Groan. The curtain slowly rose. Two rows of chairs stretched primly across the stage, eight chairs in each row. A music stand stood before the rows. It seemed so short, that music stand. Not on a long stem, like the one at the festival in Knoxville….  Shhh…. Rustling off to our left. Here they came!  The Rhythm Band.

Sixteen elementary school students. Tambourines, tom toms, sticks, rattles—all those little things I do not know what they are called. I had never been in a rhythm band. Each kid stood before a chair, silent. When they were all in place, somber, the final kid walked in. Eight-year old Dickie. In The Blue Suit, with the white shirt I’d ironed that afternoon and the red bow tie, and not a golden blond hair out of place. He looked so somber, so dignified, so smooth, you would think he wore a tuxedo. He strode up to the music stand, dipped his head, lifted his hands, held them up, and then lowered them until his band all were seated.

I had goose-bumps on my arms so big my sleeves trembled.

It was one of the few times that Chapel knew absolute silence. When he felt sure, Dickie raised his arms again. The members of the band stood and lifted up their instruments. At exactly the right moment, Dickie made that little flick of his wrist, and the music began.

Music it was! I sit here now, fifty-seven years later, to tell you I have been in great concert halls. I have heard famous people play famous music. I have seen famous conductors. I have even sung under the direction of one of them and been good friends with another. But I have never seen nor heard a more professionally conducted performance in my life.

Dickie, that Golden Boy brother of mine, had music in his soul. It had to pour through his veins and filter through his bones as it did through those of our father and it does through mine. I do not know about my other brothers. They do not speak of this, and none of them have acted on it. I know only what I saw that night. Dickie had found his element. Not only did he stand and wave his baton, he called in individual instruments and players. He leaned into the task; he begged them for more. He held out his hand to a section, to ask them to show restraint, and his restraint evinced perfection. When the time came to go a little bit faster, he enthused (he would!), and they all were happy together.

At the end of the third piece, he bowed to the band and seated them, then turned to us, his audience. He bowed with such courtliness we found it impossible to believe him anything but a prince. He turned and, with a small smile, walked proudly off stage. The applause of the audience of fewer than fifty deafened even the youngest among us.

After an hour, my sleeves relaxed and my cheeks were dry. I sat tall and proud of that Golden Boy. Richard!

First Storm

I was eleven the first time

I felt the big wind and hot rain.

The creek was a river.

It rushed like a madman.

 

On the rickety wooden bridge,

toes curled over the edge,

hanging out,

waving my arms,

I welcomed exultation’s flow.

 

It was my first

full-bore, full-blown, hyper-manic;

a welcome discomfort,

scary, beyond control.

I loved it.

 

“Let’s go!

Let the wind blow through me.

Look at that water chugging along,

spinroiling, roaring, chortling,

laughing past rocks,

throwing big limbs up in the air.”

 

I heard crashing rocks,

rumbling that was the whole world

singing itself bigger than life,

groaning: “I am not Mother Earth! I am The Father,

bringing life to all that will live,

flowing My will into everything,

leaving no stone unturned,

lifting each root up unto these hills,

bearing the presents in all things to come.”

 

Old bitch Baxter teacher witch came

screeching like the banshee she was.

Said she was going to tell my Daddy on me;

meaning to put fear of The Father in me.

 

Impossible.

I sent threat down the river.

 

She put disgust,

distrust of humanity

in me forever.

 

I remained

 

high on the bridge.

 

It’s About Time

I started to think about time one evening, and I couldn’t get to the end of it.

I have a friend in India. Chandigarh is half-way around the world from where I lived until a year ago, and I had a hard time keeping track of what time it is there, so I made a chart. I called him one day, and I updated my chart because I had just moved to a different time zone.

There I sat, changing time. Can we change time? I always struggle with Einsteinian physics. I do get the general concepts, so I am aware that theoretically we can change time in some sense. We can bend time, or stretch it, or shrink it; time is, as they say, plastic, not concrete. But we cannot, as I understand things, change time’s consistency. For example, water can be turned into steam or ice, but I haven’t heard that time can be made liquid or solid. My sense is that time is evanescent. At least, it gets away from me in the same way as does a cloud.

Think of all the things we do with time: We take time, make time, use time, keep time, save time, lose time, spend time, waste time. If we have time, we can spare time, give time, share time.

We bandy those words about with abandon. At first, as I listed them, I thought them all to be literal impossibilities. Then I thought again.

Make time. How do you do that? Well, you decrease the amount of time you spend on one or more activities and thus release time not otherwise available. It’s like when you pinch off a bit of dough from two already formed cookies to make a third.

Taking time works much the same way, but you could be taking it from someone else’s allocation, and that might not be fair.

Using and spending time mean pretty much the same thing. Once you have done one of them, the time is gone; we all know that. Where did it go? When you use water, you know where it went: You drank it or you took a bath in it and let it go down the drain. Where does the time go? We ask ourselves that many times.

Keeping time has several meanings. You keep time with music by tapping your feet or dancing well. A young man keeps time with his girl.

You can save time by hurrying while you perform some action or activity. But, I ask you, where is that time you saved? Do you have a drawer full of time at the end of the week? A book in which you record all the time you saved, and the interest accrued?

All of us have lost time. I am sure that, once you let it get away, you never get it back. I doubt that no one who reads this has never wasted time. That time is as good as lost, also. But I believe that some wasted time is valuable, so I never worry about that.

When we plan ahead, we leave time for the unexpected.

Here are a few puzzles: We can run out of time, but not into it. We can take a time out, but not a time in. We can do different things at the same time, but not exactly the same thing at different times. At the end of an event, we say time’s up, but we never say time’s down. We have both down times and up times.

I’m ashamed to admit this one: We all kill time.

Sometimes, we just sit around with time on our hands. Again, you cannot see this time, or put it away to use later. We all know that it is good to give some time—say a few minutes—to someone else who needs a hand; we all can spare time at a time like this.

Best of all, we can share time with all the folks whose company we enjoy. There’s nothing better to do with time than share it.

Oh dear! I had a lot more to say and I never did answer the question about whether or not we can change time, but now I don’t have time.

 

Birds and Beasts

Every two months I receive my copy of the magazine, “Poets and Writers.” Sometimes I do not read every page/article. Often, I read only those of immediate relevance to me and my work. I always read the regular page that offers prompts for poets, writers of fiction and writers of nonfiction. The prompts intend to stimulate and inspire writers to write about the topic presented.

A recent prompt for writers of nonfiction is a suggestion to write about a pattern or routine observed in nature that applies to one’s own everyday habits.

At my desk, through the double sliding doors that open onto the patio, I watch what I call my zoo. The creatures I’ve watched for several years now are families of squirrels and rabbits and flocks of hummingbirds. Each group has its own distinct characteristics and persistent behaviors—behaviors that both astonish me and remind me of my own traits and habits.

The squirrels, rabbits and quail occupy the spaces under two adjacent and similarly trimmed bushes. Most of the year, virtually every time I lift my eyes from my work one or another group is out there, putting on a show designed, at least, to entertain me. I know they’re just going about their lives, as am I, working at my desk.

One of the two bushes serves as the incubator and bedroom of the “children,” as I call them. The other bush is occupied by the parents, who actually spend most of their time caring for their children. The squirrels, rabbits and quail share both bushes—children to my left and parents to the right.

In the spring, the parents arrive. For days, courting activities occupy most of their time. Next they make ready the children’s incubator. After gestation, the babies are born there, the quail first, followed by the rabbits and squirrels. For nearly a month, procuring food and feeding the children takes virtually every moment for the parents.

When the children are old enough, much activity is devoted to preparing them for their adult lives and activities. They go on expeditions to explore the nearby territory. I cannot see all of that territory, or what the parents do/say to tell the children what is done in each area. And still a great amount of time is focused on food, especially for the children.

Adolescent activities are especially delightful to watch. A pair of squirrels uses the entire area I can see as playground and gymnasium. They sit up and spar like boxers, push each other around, and run away to be chased and tagged by their partner. The rabbits hop and race all over the yard, each daring the other to overtake them.

When the time is right, the children simply disappear. The squirrel and rabbit parents clean their areas under the bushes. Before they do that, the quail parents spend several days obviously mourning the absence of their children before they clean up their space. The squirrels and rabbits have only one set of children, each season. The quail have at least one more brood of chicks before the end of summer.

I cannot hear what, if anything, the squirrels and rabbits say to each other, but I hear whole conversations by the quail. Their vocabulary ranges from the “What,” of courtship, and the “Who” of parenthood, to an accusatory “Where” when both Mom and Dad are each sure the other has misplaced the children who have actually left home to begin their lives as adults.

This spring, I observed new, never before seen by me, squirrel activities. Suddenly one afternoon, I espied what I thought was a dead squirrel, sprawled next to the incubator bush. I planned, when I came to a stopping point in my work, to call the maintenance department to come remove the body. But next time I looked out, the “dead” squirrel was nowhere in sight. After that, for more than a month, even during intense feeding activity, the squirrel appeared in mid-afternoon, tidied his couch, and lay down for a nap of about 20 minutes.

Usually, the napping squirrel disappeared when he was wide awake. But one day, to my astonishment and delight, he arose after his nap and bathed himself. Like a bathing cat, he licked all the parts he could reach. Then he licked his paw and used it to wash his face and head, including behind his ears. When he finished, he rejoined his mate in the task of feeding the children. I saw that only once, but—because all other behaviors occurred routinely—I am sure it happens regularly.

For the first time, sometime after their children had flown the coop and they themselves had departed, I observed the quail parents’ return with a group of nearly full-grown quail (I’m sure one of their broods). For three consecutive days, they all returned to the area. The parents herded the adolescents into the space under the incubator bush. They actually pushed one or two strays to go in. I’m sure they were telling the children that space was where they should raise their own families. One day, they also led the children on a tour of the adult bedroom.

The squirrels and rabbits have all disappeared, now. I don’t know where they go, but I’m sure, like human snowbirds from northern states, they must have winter hideaways somewhere.

==========

Like the inhabitants of my zoo, I am a creature of habit. Some observers equate my behaviors to similarity to those (others) among us who are defined as being on the Autistic Spectrum or sufferers of the Obsessive/Compulsive Disorder. I do not disagree with that allusion. After all, my behaviors and routines have not changed very much, if at all, since I can remember having them.

For example, I cannot begin a day, a writing session, or preparation of a meal without first tidying up my surround. Indeed, for most of such activities, I tidy up both before and after they’re accomplished.

Tidying up, what squirrels and rabbits do at the beginning and end of the season, is often for me easier than it is for most folks. I have a place for everything, and everything must, when not in use, be in its assigned place. When something not currently in use is somewhere out of place, I experience the same kind and amount of discomfort as one does when their shoes are on the wrong feet. In my old age, I’ve been able to relinquish some of this compulsion. Now, the result of tidying up is frequently a matter of making neat stacks of papers or lining up things on desk or kitchen counters, rather than returning each item to its assigned place.

All my life, I’ve also practiced a number of equally non-varying routines. Like tidying up, certain regular activities must be performed as routines. Morning preparations for the day have a certain order that I am unable to violate easily. Teeth first, washing face next, and so it goes. Evening preparations for the night also have a certain order. I’ve not come to these routines in a random manner. They are based on efficiency. It doesn’t pay to wash my face before I brush my teeth. Toothpaste cannot be trained to not dribble down my chin; if I’ve washed my face first, I will have to do it again. Likewise, there’s no point in parting my dry hair; that, too will have to be done again after I’ve washed it. As I’ve grown older, I tend to forget rationale and routine for many activities. I get pretty annoyed with myself for absentmindedness, for forgetting the routine and the reasons for it.

As for feeding and otherwise parenting children (and being a housewife), I can only say that meals were served regularly, by the clock. Laundry, cleaning, and grocery shopping were done on certain days. Each child had essentially the same bedroom décor and furnishings. (Each had their own basic color scheme.) When the children had all flown the coop and I was working at a regular, nine-to-five job, regularity was replaced by the pressures of time and necessity, but it took several years for me not to feel that same shoes-on-the-wrong-feet discomfort.

I’ll mention only in passing the whole issue of which sock and shoe to put on in what order. When I was in second grade, for days I was late for school. I was most definitely not dallying. I thought about and practiced all possible permutations of the order for socks and shoes, in order to determine how to save time. James Galbraith would have been proud of me and my careful research. Galbraith was the author of “Cheaper by the Dozen” and other books about his seminal investigations that led to time/motion efficiency theories and practices. My own early work pre-dated my knowledge of his efforts. (Contact me if you want to know the result of my socks-and-shoes research!)

There’s more, but you must by now see that there’s plenty of evidence to support the idea that living life with a certain amount of regularity and routine makes really good sense. I believe need for and a certain amount of practiced routine is innate. There’s a reason animals build nests before their offspring are delivered. Tidying up has a practical effect for efficiency. Children must be fed, for growth at least. Maybe the order of putting on and tying socks and shoes doesn’t really matter, but the idea of efficient application of task and time taken is basically sound.

There are those who manage to survive until old age brings forgetfulness as a routine practice. Animals persist in training their young to follow specific routines for almost all situations they will encounter. It’s possible to consider those humans who live life as a series of random events in a chaotic surround were never trained. On the other hand, I “trained” three children to live as though their lives depended on routines, but only one of them has evolved to a form of tidy and regular life.

Thus continues the battle between believers of heredity and believers of environment as paramount in how we behave. I’m not convinced, either way, but I’m convinced that I was born the way I am. And there I rest my case.

==========

At the beginning of this blog, I mentioned hummingbirds. That’s another blog.