32. The Indiana State 4-H Band ... THE FARM EAST OF PINE VILLAGE

In the second summer that Robert participated in Ouibache, he played clarinet in the Indiana State 4-H Band.

It was the summer before his junior year, and the big concert band was 116 members strong. The director was Roger C. Heath, who was an assistant director at Purdue University. He would go on to found the band program at Virginia Tech. He had earned his degrees at the University of Colorado and had taught in Montana before coming to Purdue.

Heath had assembled a challenging concert for such a young concert band with limited rehearsal time. Part I included “Slavonic Folk Suite,” and Part II concluded with “Stars and Stripes Forever.”

The director tolerated no monkey business, and he demanded excellence. Robert’s jaw grew tired from playing passages again and again with only seconds of instruction in between. Everyone felt increasingly on edge. During the rare breaks, band members discerned that Mr. Heath was displeased.

The final rehearsal before the concert was tense.

“Trombones,” Mr. Heath said, “that passage must be cleaner. Try it again!” He gave the downbeat with his baton. “No! Cleaner! Try again!” Another downbeat. “Still not clean enough! Again!”

Next, the tempo was of concern. “Band, you are rushing!” Mr. Heath said. “Keep your eyes up here, and keep the tempo with me!”

The band played the passage again.

“Still rushing! Still not looking up here!”

The volume was a problem. Mr. Heath said, “The audience wants to hear the piccolo. You must bring down the volume!”

The band played the passage again.

“Still can’t hear the piccolo! Still not bringing down the volume! Again!”

The band played the passage another time.

Finally, there was no time left.

Mr. Heath set down his baton and stared at the band for several seconds. “This evening,” he began, “I will be all smiles and roses, no matter how well or how poorly you perform. At the end, I will still be all smiles and roses, but, if you have performed poorly, I will not tell you that you performed well. I will simply say nothing.”

With those words, Mr. Heath turned on his heel and was gone.    

 

On that Tuesday evening, June 30th of 1970, the band members slowly filed onto the stage of the vast Edward C. Elliott Hall of Music for the Seventh Annual Concert of the Indiana State 4-H Band, to perform for the public during the Fifty-Second Annual 4-H Club Roundup.

Robert felt dread all the way to his toes, and his stomach kept doing somersaults. He could not remember ever having been so nervous before a band concert, although he certainly had experienced nervousness before many a piano solo. He took his place amid the clarinet section. (A few years later, he would be first chair of the second clarinets in the famed Indiana University Marching Hundred, and, in Robert’s senior year in college, he would be named the Outstanding Bandsman, an honor he would share with drum major Fred Kelly.)

Wearing a black suit and bow tie, Mr. Heath stepped onto the stage to the applause of the packed hall.

He was all smiles and roses.

During the intermission, he was all smiles and roses.

At the end of the concert, he remained all smiles and roses.

Robert breathed a big sigh of relief when the program was over. The music had made a hit with the audience, for the applause was like thunder. After bowing, Mr. Heath turned to the band and said, “You—were—excellent!” enunciating each word so that he could be heard over the applause. He immediately pointed to the piccolo player to stand for special acknowledgment; then he waved all the band members to their feet to be congratulated.

The next summer, Robert was back for more.

The director of the 1971 Indiana State 4-H Band was William D. Kisinger, also an assistant at Purdue. Affable and easygoing, Mr. “Bill” Kisinger greeted the 111 band members warmly.

With his head held high and his chin up, Mr. Kisinger said, in his characteristic rapid pattern, often nodding. “I want to welcome you to the campus of Purdue University and to say how much I’m looking forward to working with you and to tell you that we are going to be making music! We have charts that are really exciting, and we’re going to be a big hit, and the audience is going to love us!”

With those positive sentiments, Mr. Kisinger began the rehearsal. He often left the baton lying on the stand and conducted with his hands.

Mr. Kisinger was a product of the University of Illinois, which had a tradition of innovation going back to the earliest years of marching band performances at football games. He embodied assurance and confidence.

Mr. Kisinger liked what he heard from the 4-H band, and he would like it even more if the trumpets could keep their bells up. Brass instruments were suddenly lifted higher. If an entire section missed a note, he calmly stepped down from the platform, strode over, picked up the music from one of the stands, pointed at it, and said, “Not your fault! Transcription error! There was supposed to be a flat there, so let’s make it a B flat in bar 77, and does everyone have a pencil—if not, there’s one over here—and now we know it’s a B flat in bar 77, so let’s hear it, beginning with bar 75 and one, two, three, four!” He had hopped back onto the platform by the end of his statement and was counting and conducting. He beamed when he heard the B flat, and he went on without stopping.

Breaks were timed well, and the ratio of instruction to playing was just right.

On a ridiculously hot Monday evening, June 28th in 1971, Mr. Kisinger stepped onto the stage of the Slayter Center, a spacious band shell that looked like Alexander Calder’s answer to Stonehenge supported by an enormous tripod. The stage was only seven years old. Mr. Kisinger was in a short-sleeve shirt and wore a 4-H cap.

Every moment of the concert was fun.

When the band performed a medley of songs from West Side Story, Robert could hardly believe his ears: “Tonight” had such a sumptuous sound, and “America” had such a driving rhythm!

The hill stretching away from the stage was so full of families sitting on blankets that almost none of the green grass was showing. At concert’s end, with one accord, the audience stood to applaud and applaud, until Mr. Kisinger announced an encore number, for which he had planned all along and which the band had rehearsed.

From his two years in the Indiana State 4-H Band, Robert took away the realization that excellence can result from at least two divergent methods: from strict discipline leading to the attainment of a high standard or from amiable collaboration bringing about a joy in a job well done. In the spring of 1972, he auditioned for Mr. Frederick C. Ebbs, director of bands at Indiana University, and was accepted into the renowned Marching Hundred. Robert wondered which pedagogical styles directors Mr. Ebbs, Mr. Ray Cramer, and Mr. Wilbur T. England would evince.     

25. The Rev. Lowell E. Morris ... THE FARM IN PINE VILLAGE

“Your Grandpa and Grandma Morris are coming to dinner today,” Ida reminded the boys. “Robert, I need you to dust, and, Charles, I want you to straighten up your room and put all your toys away.”

Whenever the demands of a farm permitted, the family traveled southeast to Kirklin, Indiana, to visit Grandpa and Grandma Morris. He was the minister of the Methodist Church there. Before Robert could remember, the Morrises had lived in Westville, Indiana, where Ida taught school for the first time after earning her teaching degree at Indiana State Teachers College. Throughout his long working life, Grandpa Morris had taught school in Kentucky and Montana, and had served as minister in such Hoosier towns as Circleville, Frankfort, Hillsboro, Indianapolis, Newtown, Pence, Pittsboro, Waveland, and Wheatfield.

The Morrises came to see Ida, Joe, Charles, and Robert whenever a busy minister could find an opportunity.

Robert's mother had told the boys, “They’re not related to you the way grandparents usually are, but they’re your grandparents, all the same.” Robert had failed to understand what such a cryptic statement meant, but, just by listening to the adults’ conversation, he had discerned that the Reverend Lowell Everett Morris was Ida’s surrogate father who had taken her under his wing when she was a thirteen-year-old girl in the Methodist Children’s Home in Lebanon, Indiana.

Using the dust cloth that his mother handed him, Robert carefully cleaned the surfaces of the furniture in the living room while Charles repeatedly filled a cardboard box with toys that he then deposited in a small room at the foot of the stairway.

Robert enjoyed visits from Grandpa Morris, who was an educated gentleman with thick glasses, thin nose, thin face, thin hands, a ready smile, and … a toupee. Robert’s father had said that Grandpa Morris gave the best sermons of any preacher Joe had heard because Grandpa Morris researched his topics thoroughly, wrote compellingly, and spoke eloquently. Robert had never heard him in the pulpit, but, when Joe married Ida, the Rev. Morris was the minister at the Methodist Church in Pine Village, and he officiated at their wedding, which took place at the parsonage. Robert had no reason to doubt his father’s assessment of Grandpa Morris’ abilities as a scholar, a writer, and an orator. At all times, Grandpa Morris’ intelligence and his intellectual attainments were obvious to Robert. (Many years later, Robert had the opportunity to hear Grandpa Morris give a guest sermon at the Methodist Church in Pine Village, and Robert was appropriately appreciative. Grandpa Morris quoted great literature while constructing an argument of biblical interpretation worthy of an English department degree in a leading university. His delivery was impeccable!)

Before long, Ida greeted Grandpa and Grandma Morris at the front door and welcomed them into the living room. Grandma Morris’ name was Fern. She was Grandpa Morris’s second wife. His first wife, Ella, had died many years earlier.

While Joe put the guests’ coats on the bed in the main bedroom, Ida asked about their drive.

“We made good time,” Grandpa Morris said. “We talked about little else other than how much we were going to enjoy another one of your home-cooked meals.”

Ida excused herself to return to the kitchen while Joe, who taught the adult class at the church, talked to the Rev. Morris about recent class activities. Soon, Ida called everyone to the dinner table.

Grandpa Morris said the grace: “Father, we ask that you bless this food to our good and us to thy service, and we ask a special blessing for the hands that prepared this dinner.”

Then a heaping platter of fried chicken was passed to Fern. Next came bowls of mashed potatoes, lima beans, and corn. A gravy boat made the rounds. Side dishes included strawberry Jell-O with banana slices. Ida had made her yeast rolls for the occasion. They were fat and fluffy! The conversation flowed effortlessly, with Grandpa Morris talking about various churches he had served, including Flackville near Indianapolis. Ida had lived with the Rev. Morris and Ella in Flackville while Ida taught elementary school in Indianapolis. Grandpa Morris also spoke about his service to the settlement schools in eastern Kentucky when he was a young man starting out. Robert listened intently to the Rev. Morris’ stories about the mountain boys and girls that, so long ago, had attended the Red Bird Mission School to learn skills that could readily be put to use.

While the dessert of angel food cake was being served, Grandpa Morris said, “I have good news. Fern and I will be moving back to Pine Village.”

Ida beamed and glanced happily toward Joe, as he said with a big smile, “You don’t say!”

“Yes, I do say!” Grandpa Morris confirmed with a smile bigger than Joe’s. “I have decided to retire from the active ministry, and Fern and I want to live here. A house is available less than a block south of the Methodist Church, and we intend to sign for it.”

“It’ll be so nice to have you living nearby!” Ida exclaimed.

“We wanted to surprise you,” said Grandpa Morris.

“You’ve done that alright,” said Ida.

“I’ve always felt a special connection to the church here in Pine Village,” Grandpa Morris continued. “This is Fern’s hometown, and we want to be near you and your family.”

A few months later, the Morrises moved into a tidy white house on the east side of Jefferson Street. A few steps led up to the front porch. The front door opened into a cozy living room. Quite often, Robert’s family looked in on Grandpa and Grandma Morris, who were frequent guests at Sunday dinner. Grandpa Morris usually could be found sitting in an easy chair with his feet up while he was reading a book or a church magazine. Robert liked visiting the Morrises because Grandpa Morris had a special place in his heart for Robert and Charles.

Once, on a hot summer day, Grandpa Morris walked up to see Ida and Joe. He found Robert trying to saw a board that Robert wanted for a birdhouse that needed a new bottom. The handsaw’s teeth had become flattened through hard use, and Robert was making only slow progress.

“Let me show you how to saw,” Grandpa Morris said. Robert gladly let the Rev. Morris take over.

“You want to move your arm straight back and forth from the elbow,” Grandpa Morris instructed. Then he began to demonstrate.

The saw caught and bowed, so Grandpa Morris pulled back on it to straighten it out. He slowly drew the saw in the groove to give it a good start. He again tried to demonstrate how to work the saw forward and back, but it snagged as before.

The saw kept jamming up. Beads of perspiration were forming on Grandpa Morris’ forehead and trickling down his neck. He unbuttoned his outer shirt, removed it, and draped it across the clothesline. In the process, he bumped his toupee, which slipped to one side. He straightened it, and then, with his undershirt clinging to the perspiration, he threw himself into the project with all his strength. By the sheer power of his will, Grandpa Morris finally managed to saw through the board.

He grinned, handed the saw back to Robert, reclaimed his shirt, put it on (this time carefully, so as not to dislodge his toupee), and buttoned it up. “As Ecclesiastes says,” Grandpa Morris began, “‘Whatever your hand finds to do, do it with all your might!’ I think I will ask Ida for some of her sweet iced tea now.”

Robert thanked Grandpa Morris for the lesson.