As many of you know, within the past few years both my parents have passed away, and my brother and I have been trying to deal with the estate, including a somewhat run-down 1950s 2-bedroom, 2-bath rancher with just short of 50 years worth of junk. Since I've had a lot of time on my hands--being unemployed helps a lot with that--I volunteered to do the lion's share of the cleanout and to oversee any renovations and repairs needed.
Last week, in cleaning out some things, I happened upon a big box with folders and papers. I almost threw it out without looking at it, but my bro and I are trying to be very careful and judicious in the cleanup, lest we throw out some priceless 50-plus-year-old vase that looks like a pot-metal flower-holder thing. This comes by hard experience: mom lost her engagement ring and a pretty bluish-stone ring to a thief at the nursing home. We were foolhardy enough to believe that mom's valuables were safe in her room. My brother and I knew that, just by the age of the rings, they were valuable; we didn't know how valuable until we found an insurance policy on them over a year after mom died. Some nursing home employee is now driving a new car thanks to our "contribution." It's a sad thing to happen, but once-bitten, twice shy.
So I started digging through the box to try to discern and evaluate its contents. It turned out it was a huge collection of notebooks, homework, and miscellany from me and my brother's days in school, some going back as far as the second grade! Since I'm currently in a phase of self-exploration, I couldn't help but take the time to examine each item individually. There was my old French notebook (cahier) from my senior year! Yikes! I thought I had done better in that subject than what the quiz, homework, and test scores told. There was a collection of band concert programs and correspondence from the booster club.
Then there were several folders from my English classes. I had always struggled with grades in English. As a matter of fact, I had had to double up on English classes my last spring semester in order to graduate on time, as I'd flunked Prose the previous winter. I somehow managed to tough it out and get two passing grades, though I distinctly remember waking up with panic attacks during that horribly stressful period.
Rather ironic, really, flunking Prose. Especially considering how accomplished a writer I was. Though my grades didn't show it, I enjoyed writing somewhat. Despite my deficiencies, I was able to tell a good tale. It was obvious in looking at some of my earliest work in the box. The "One day..." stories were very original. I was a bit disorganized in my thinking and tended to "write ahead" of my thoughts--not to mention sloppy penmanship--but I had a knack for seeing things in a fresh was. I recall almost fainting one day when my sophmore English teacher, Mrs. Middleton, who was definitely of the "old school," hickory-switch-and-ruler educational era ("A dog can be 'mad'; but humans get 'angry.'"), came up to me unbidden and exclaimed, "Have you ever thought of being a writer?" What? Me?! Are you talkin' to me?! Eric White? Sit over on the side wall? Score low C's on your tests? She was talking to me. I'd apparently written some kind of wonderfully clever entry in my journal--remember those?--a few days before. (Alas, the journal had apparently not been saved in the box.)
But I liked writing. As a matter of fact, during that period in my life, I began keeping a private journal (i.e., one not meant for anyone to see but me... and before you say "diary," let me say, women keep diaries; men keep journals). It wasn't a consistent thing. It started out as a way to remember my thoughts and experiences on various school and church trips, but it came to be a great way for me to clear my head about something that was bothering me, so I started doing more personal entries. I was a shy kid back then, and writing allowed to voice my own feelings and opinions couched in a nonthreatening way. The weird thing was that I began letting people read my journal. It started with me letting people read my "documentation" of whatever school or church trip we happened to be on, but since my personal entries were in the same book, there was nothing to stop them from reading those. People seemed to enjoy reading what I'd written, and it made me feel good that I had made, say, a six-hour bus ride more bearable for someone. There was even a point where I would have to hunt down my journal on the bus in order to continue my thoughts.
Suddenly, I had a voice; I had something to say that mattered. Granted, the people reading it were my friends, people I was close to. But later on in college, it got to where I really didn't care who read it. Someone would ask to see it and I would oblige--most of the time. If you didn't like my opinions and impressions, too bad. They were mine and mine alone. Journaling was a terrific way for me to develop my usually somewhat lacking self-esteem.
I have continued--somewhat irregularly--my journaling to this day. Hmmm... you might say that I was the original blogger! A man before his time. You might say that. You might be wrong, too.
So, getting back to my magical box of goodies. It's quite enlightening to see who you were way back when. There are two tracks of thought in doing this: 1. I wish I were more the person that I was back then now, and 2. I'm glad I'm not the same person I was back then. The final answer to that is, for me, a little of both, I guess. One the one hand, I wouldn't go back to those days in high school and college to save my neck; on the other, that period was a magical part of my life. Bad, a lot. Good, a lot, too.
Suffice it to say, if you had told me back then where I am now, I probably would've laughed my head off. Singing opera? C'mon. Get real, dude. If anyone can't say that you're a different person than you were as a teenager, I'll need to give you the number of my therapist.
A rather odd footnote to the writing:
In 1985, my mother went out with a bunch of her friends to celebrate someone's birthday. As part of the celebration, they all went up to Morristown to see a local "world famous" psychic, Bobby Drinnon. Apparently, the birthday girl visited him regularly and thought "Wouldn't it be fun if..." Now, my mom doesn't believe in all that psychic stuff... at least she didn't think she did at the time. But she went along with the group, as it was just something different and fun to do, like those old machines that you'd put a nickel in and it would give your weight and tell your future. And who doesn't open their fortune cookie after eating Chinese?
So, she saw the psychic... and came away dumbfounded! When she walked in the door, he asked her if her husband was in the military or a policeman or fireman, as he was seeing a uniform. My mom couldn't figure it out... until she realized that he was seeing dad in his scout uniform! Dad was a lifelong scouter: scoutmaster, advisor, leader. Okay, so maybe that could've been a coincidence. But the other stuff he told her about herself and her family was equally uncanny!
"Bless her heart, mom was so amazed with what he said, when she came home she jotted down everything that she could remember him saying for future reference. That piece of paper was in the box I found. Regarding me, he had said (sic):
"Regarding your other son, the musical one, people at the church absolutely love him. He is very talented. I see him making a living as a writer. "
Writer? Me? C'mon, dude. Ah, but life is not over yet. I wonder if Bobby Drinnon has any openings in the near future.
- EW
Monday, June 4, 2007
Friday, June 1, 2007
SF Opera replaces singer after final dress
I happened upon an Associated Press story this morning in the News-Sentinel about the San Francisco Opera replacing their Donna Anna, Hope Briggs, after the final dress rehearsal of Don Giovanni. (The opera opens tomorrow night.) The original SFO press release is here (Adobe Acrobat format). The gist of the article can be summed up in the phrase "not ultimately suited for the role..."
Ouch. Given the length and intensity of our recent production experience, how would you feel if we got to Wednesday night and Don came up to you and said "[Name], we think you're not ultimately suited for the role of chorister in this production"? All that work, all that sweat, blood, and tears. For nought!
Granted, Briggs will probably get some kind of salary, probably with some kind of good-faith incentive package for keeping her mouth shut about the whole deal. But talk about a career blow! Of course, the press release is mealy mouthed. the words "not ultimately suited" can mean anything from "couldn't hack it vocally" to "was too much of a diva to deal with." But there's that word "suited." That seems to indicate that she just didn't have the chops to do that role. But her agency's bio page says that she performed the role in Frankfurt in 2006 (though it's listed under future engagements.) A little research turned up a review of her performance which seems positive enough... at least, as far as my German and the Google translator goes.
Ouch. Given the length and intensity of our recent production experience, how would you feel if we got to Wednesday night and Don came up to you and said "[Name], we think you're not ultimately suited for the role of chorister in this production"? All that work, all that sweat, blood, and tears. For nought!
Granted, Briggs will probably get some kind of salary, probably with some kind of good-faith incentive package for keeping her mouth shut about the whole deal. But talk about a career blow! Of course, the press release is mealy mouthed. the words "not ultimately suited" can mean anything from "couldn't hack it vocally" to "was too much of a diva to deal with." But there's that word "suited." That seems to indicate that she just didn't have the chops to do that role. But her agency's bio page says that she performed the role in Frankfurt in 2006 (though it's listed under future engagements.) A little research turned up a review of her performance which seems positive enough... at least, as far as my German and the Google translator goes.
Thursday, May 24, 2007
Summertime, and the Livin' is Easy
As a singer in K-town, summertime is a double-edged sword. The opera company, the symphony, church choirs, and other musical groups--all run their seasons from August or September through May or June. But it's not a specific thing to Knoxville.
During summer school as an undergrad at UT, I was talking to my tuba teacher, Sande MacMorran, one day during a lesson about this very thing. (I strove to distract Sande with off-topic questions during lessons so that he wouldn't have so much time to tell me how bad my playing was... It was!) I was wondering why I was so unmotivated to do things (e.g., practicing) during the warmer months. He pointed out the obvious concept I had missed.
From our earliest days of socialization, our earliest days of day care and kindergarten, we wrap our lives' schedules around school. For most of us, that means from August until June, we're calculating every other event around our schooling, which is by far the lion's share of our time and efforts. And, usually from the second day of classes on, we dream about experiencing those heady days of summer vacation again, those days when we'll have all that time to do the things we want to do rather than being told to do the things we should. And yet, even in the ancient days of my education, summer school existed, but it was and still is rarely attended.
When I was in sixth grade, Knox County Schools tried out a program called ESY--Eextended School Year. The idea was that the calendar year was divided into "quinmesters" (five semesters). Each child was required to attend four of them, but each family could choose which four. Want to take the family on a skiing trip to Colorado? Fine. Skip quinmester two (winter) and make it up during the fifth, summer, quinmester (that bon mot makes me gag to this day). I think the program lasted about two years before being scrapped. The reason? Everybody was going to--gurk!--quinmesters one through four, and there just weren't enough students to justify paying a full-time staff for the summers, not to mention having to reteach material to students that had skipped the previous quin... uh, let's just say, "semester."
Summer school still exists, but in its previous form. The single grading period consists of approximately one month of intensive teaching at the beginning of summer, student attendance is still light, and only a few teachers are needed. You would think that such a "compacted" grading period would be stressful, but both teachers and students report that it feels very different, more relaxed, than the grading periods during the year. This feeling exists even at the college level, where summer school is a more "normal" occurrence.
BTW, I Googled "quinmester," and the word is still used by many school systems.
Which brings us back around. Without the opera and without choir, singers--well, this one, anyway--tend to get out of shape during the summer months. Oh sure, there's the occasional solo gig. (After all, who's taking the place of all that choral music in church services? Solos!) But, increasingly, there are less and less of those. And the Knoxville Choral Society/Knoxville Symphony Chorus do their Independence Day thingy, but that's just one concert for them, and I imagine the rep's pretty staid. Summer could be an opportunity! An opportunity to work on solo rep for next year, maybe take a few voice lessons, or just get an ad hoc group together to sing for the helluvit.
But I doubt it.
During summer school as an undergrad at UT, I was talking to my tuba teacher, Sande MacMorran, one day during a lesson about this very thing. (I strove to distract Sande with off-topic questions during lessons so that he wouldn't have so much time to tell me how bad my playing was... It was!) I was wondering why I was so unmotivated to do things (e.g., practicing) during the warmer months. He pointed out the obvious concept I had missed.
From our earliest days of socialization, our earliest days of day care and kindergarten, we wrap our lives' schedules around school. For most of us, that means from August until June, we're calculating every other event around our schooling, which is by far the lion's share of our time and efforts. And, usually from the second day of classes on, we dream about experiencing those heady days of summer vacation again, those days when we'll have all that time to do the things we want to do rather than being told to do the things we should. And yet, even in the ancient days of my education, summer school existed, but it was and still is rarely attended.
When I was in sixth grade, Knox County Schools tried out a program called ESY--Eextended School Year. The idea was that the calendar year was divided into "quinmesters" (five semesters). Each child was required to attend four of them, but each family could choose which four. Want to take the family on a skiing trip to Colorado? Fine. Skip quinmester two (winter) and make it up during the fifth, summer, quinmester (that bon mot makes me gag to this day). I think the program lasted about two years before being scrapped. The reason? Everybody was going to--gurk!--quinmesters one through four, and there just weren't enough students to justify paying a full-time staff for the summers, not to mention having to reteach material to students that had skipped the previous quin... uh, let's just say, "semester."
Summer school still exists, but in its previous form. The single grading period consists of approximately one month of intensive teaching at the beginning of summer, student attendance is still light, and only a few teachers are needed. You would think that such a "compacted" grading period would be stressful, but both teachers and students report that it feels very different, more relaxed, than the grading periods during the year. This feeling exists even at the college level, where summer school is a more "normal" occurrence.
BTW, I Googled "quinmester," and the word is still used by many school systems.
Which brings us back around. Without the opera and without choir, singers--well, this one, anyway--tend to get out of shape during the summer months. Oh sure, there's the occasional solo gig. (After all, who's taking the place of all that choral music in church services? Solos!) But, increasingly, there are less and less of those. And the Knoxville Choral Society/Knoxville Symphony Chorus do their Independence Day thingy, but that's just one concert for them, and I imagine the rep's pretty staid. Summer could be an opportunity! An opportunity to work on solo rep for next year, maybe take a few voice lessons, or just get an ad hoc group together to sing for the helluvit.
But I doubt it.
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