Half a Century Later, Part II: U.S. Naval School of Music

After a brief visit home, I reported to the U.S. Naval School of Music at the Anacostia Annex, Washington, D.C., sometime, I think, in September of 1963. I had auditioned prior to joining the Navy, so I was immediately assigned a major instrument: the piano.  No problem, or so I thought, since I had been playing and studying piano for many years. I was also assigned a “minor” instrument: the bass drum; after all, one can’t march with a piano. And I immediately begin classes in music theory.

Music theory was a breeze as I had studied that in college before joining. My memory is that I made a perfect score on all assignments (but my memory being what it is . . . ). The bass drum was simply a matter of practicing all the complicated rhythmic patterns. If one can read music, one can play the bass drum, at least on the level required here. But the piano became a problem: I was classically trained and knew nothing about playing popular music nor jazz. I still thought I could manage it, though, with a little practice and help from an instructor.  I was wrong.  The teacher would sit at the keyboard, whip through a jazz piece with elegance and skill—and then he would say, “That’s how it’s done; now, you do it.” And that was the full extent of my instruction in jazz and popular music. I didn’t learn a thing. And as the term wore on, I knew I was probably in trouble.

On November 21^st of 1963 I turned 21.  Great, except the drinking age at that time in D.C. was 18. But a friend took me out for drinks and an evening of soft-core porn movies; all I can remember of those were a lot of shower scenes and lots of women’s breasts bouncing around. I was not impressed, but I tried to put up a good front.

The next day President Kennedy was assassinated. I’ve chronicled my minor part in all the funeral activities previously in a blog and won’t repeat them here: http://garysworldinwords.blogspot.com/2013/11/my-brush-with-history.html.

By the end of the term, the school was making preparations to relocate to Virginia Beach; ten of us who were at the end of the first term were sent in advance to the new location to help with the relocation: moving pianos around, unloading instruments and music, and various other manual tasks.

Once settled in, my second term began.  The powers that be decided that piano wasn’t working out since I couldn’t (in their view) or wouldn’t (in my view) learn pop music and jazz, so they switched me to flute, an instrument I had picked up back in my music major days.  Again, no problem with this new major instrument. My minor instrument, however, was a sax, which I had never played before. Have you ever heard a beginning sax player? I couldn’t stand the sound, so I didn’t practice. The inevitable happened: I was kicked out of the U.S. Naval School of Music. After being there for over a year (including the move), I was shipped out to, where else: back to San Diego, this time to a guided missile cruiser, the USS Galveston. I had one more “kicked out” to endure, but I’ll save that for the next blog.

Half a Century Later

I realized with a shock today that it’s been almost 50 years since I got out of the Navy. Half a century! How is that possible? I just dug out my DD 214 and realized I wasn’t released until August 30, 1967. I was sure it was June; how could I have misremembered such a date? And I thought I had gone on active duty in early June, 1963; actually, I see it was July 31, 1963.

Well, hell, that was 50 years ago; no wonder I don’t have a clear memory. DD 214s don’t lie. And besides, since I worked in the ship’s personnel office, I typed up the 214 myself. It has to be correct. I started this blog thinking it was almost exactly 50 years ago that I was released from the Navy; I’m off by a more than a month, but I’m going to continue it anyway and reminisce a bit—and hope all my memories aren’t flawed.

I was 20 in 1963 and my life was pretty much a mess. I had been kicked out of college for bad grades. My plans to be a biologist were scrapped, thanks mostly to chemistry 101. I struggled on as a music major for a while until I realized I wasn’t disciplined enough to be a musician. I was working at a decidedly dead-end job as a customer service rep at an insurance company, writing letters to customers explaining their policies. My personal life was hardly any better; in fact, there really wasn’t much of personal life at all as I was deeply closeted, as I would remain until after my discharge.

The woman who worked in the desk in front of me, Daisy, and I became friends. We started hanging out together. Daisy was dating a Naval recruiting officer. I must have mentioned that when it was time to go into the service, I was planning on going into the Navy: all those novels I had read, such as Two Years Before the Mast, no doubt gave me a greatly skewed idea of what the Navy would be like: the romantic life at sea and those very sexy uniforms.

Vietnam was beginning to build up. Although I hadn’t yet been drafted, it was just a matter of time—probably months. With my life in such a disarray, the Navy looked more and more inviting; Daisy was more than happy to introduce me to her Navy buddy. He and I talked about possible options if I joined, and I decided to apply to the Naval School of Music, then in Washington, D.C. I became friends with another potential recruit whom I had met at the recruiting office; and we decided to join immediately, without waiting to hear from the School of Music. I signed up, took the oath, broke the news to my parents, who were decidedly unhappy, and flew to San Diego for boot camp.

After a few miserable weeks in “regular” boot camp—the usual: marching, exercises, humiliations--I received word that I had been accepted to the School of Music. I was immediately transferred to the Drum and Bugle Corps, eventually becoming drum major—with my own office. Once I was in the Corps, my boot camp experience basically ended; all we did was rehearse and play for boot camp graduations every Friday. The only actual real boot camp experience I had after transferring to the Corps was the time we spent in the tear gas room and the time we had to crawl out of a smoke filled “ship.” Compared to regular boot camp, I got off lucky. I still have the yearbook we got at the end of boot camp.

Because I was in the Corps, my boot camp time lasted longer than most, but it was easy duty indeed. And at the end of that I was shipped off to the Naval School of Music in D.C. But that’s a story for another blog: I got kicked out of there, too.

Some Thoughts on Opera

[A preliminary note: I’ve been away from blogging for some time now, thanks to a complete knee replacement (and three weeks in the hospital) and a trip to Europe and . . . well, laziness.  I’m back now and will try to be a bit more regular with my posting.]

I don’t remember a time when opera wasn’t a part of my life. One of my earliest memories is listening to Enrico Caruso singing, on a 78 rpm record, “Vesti la giubba” from Ruggero Leoncavallo's 1892 opera Pagliacci. This famous aria comes at the end of Act I and is usually translated as “Put on Your Costume.” The clown, Pagliacci, has just discovered his wife’s infidelity—but the show must go on—not that I knew or understood any of that in my callow youth. By an extraordinary stroke of luck, I still have that record.  It was recorded on one side only, as they were in those days.  I still get it out every once in a while and listen; it always brings back a flood of memories, although there are better digitized versions on CD.  But those scratches and hisses take me right back to circa 1948, listening to this deeply moving aria.  I’m still moved by it these many years later.

My mother instilled a love of opera in me. She was passionate about it and passed that passion on to me.  My dad hated opera and would have nothing to do with it; he passed that hate to my brother Ken, who to this day will have nothing to do with opera. But it was important to me then and it is now.  

I remember my first live opera performance Mom took me to: Faust by Charles Gounod.  I don’t think I followed the plot completely, but I remember quite vividly two scenes.  One is where Méphistophélès first appears in Act I.  I knew nothing of stage “magic” and didn’t understand the techniques behind Méphistophélès appearing suddenly in the air over Faust, seemingly floating off the ground.  I know now he was lit behind a scrim painted as a library, but at the time I was spellbound by this wonder.  And then I remember the final scene: Faust is visiting Marguerite in prison; she’s there for murdering her child. I doubt if I understood all those details at that age, but then Marguerite sacrifices herself for Faust and falls, seemingly dead.  Suddenly (and with that wonderful music) the walls of the prison were pulled away, the clouds of heaven appeared, and Marguerite ascended to Heaven. It would take a far less romantic soul than me not to be greatly moved by this scene.  Although I’ve seen it many times since, I am always moved by this great opera. I’ve seen it once in Chicago already with the wonderful Piotr Beczala as Faust and Ana María Martínez as Marguerite.  And it returns this season with Benjamin Bernheim as Faust and Erin Wall as Marguerite.  But I’ve never forgotten that memorable first performance.

There were other operas.  I remember a Rigoletto in particular.  I also remember that these operas were performed by The Metropolitan Opera on tour. I’ve spent a little time online and I can’t find any reference to The Met performing in Oklahoma City, so I suspect it was some other opera company on tour and my memory yet again fails me. It doesn’t make any difference: I was dazzled.

And I’ve been a regular opera attender ever since.  I had season tickets for the Ft. Worth Opera when I lived in Dallas (I couldn’t afford Dallas Opera, although I attended a few performances there).  Then when I moved back to Oklahoma I had season tickets for Tulsa Opera for many years.  For both those opera companies I had two tickets, and Mom would travel from wherever she was to join me.  After Dad died, she moved near me in Eastern Oklahoma, and we continued to regularly attend Tulsa Opera.  The last one we saw before Mom died was The Barber of Seville. After that, I moved first to Oklahoma City and then San Diego.  I attended San Diego Opera occasionally but couldn’t afford season tickets, working as I was as a night clerk in a hotel.  After returning to Texas I was too far away for a season at Austin Lyric Opera.  But now I’m in Chicago where we have a world class opera company: Lyric Opera of Chicago.  I have had season tickets for my almost ten years here.

What a world of music Mom opened for me.  I will always be grateful.

Dorien Grey and Roger

It’s been almost a year since my dear friend Roger died: November 1, 2015.  Not a day goes by that I don’t miss him.  Everything I do is measured as though Roger were still here.  I have moved on, in many ways, but always the spirit of Roger is hovering, as it were, over my shoulder and watching me.  I don’t mean this in any way morbidly nor supernaturally—there is no ghost of Roger—but he was such a part of my life for so many years that I always “align” my actions with what Roger might think (even when I know he would not approve).

And since his death I have taken over the job of editing his books, written under the name of Dorien Grey, that are being rereleased, by his major publisher, Untreed Reads, after being out of print for some time.  It’s a task I do gratefully.  I am glad that Jay, the publisher, and KD, the CEO, trust me enough to take on this task.  I’m working on the next-to-last Dick Hardesty mystery, The Peripheral Son (each edit is done twice by me and at least twice by KD); waiting in the wings is the last of the Dick Hardesty books, The Serpent’s Tongue. And recently I secured the release from his other publisher, Zumaya Publications, of the four books in Roger’s John series, a supernatural mystery collection of four novels, and his young adult western, Calico.  While I haven’t confirmed this yet, I assume I’ll also be editing them for rerelease through Untreed Reads in 2017.  It’s a job I look forward to.

But a most unusual and moving thing has happened as I’ve edited nine of the books: Dick Hardesty is becoming Roger—Dorien Grey, who was always Roger, is becoming Roger in a very real and often quite touching way.  Roger, as far as I know, had no desire to be a private detective, but the Dick Hardesty in the books in so many ways is Roger, that I find I am often moved to tears at scenes in the books.  This is particularly true in Dick’s relationship with his partner, Jonathan; their relationship is what Roger always wanted for himself—and never really had.  Even, I think, to the extent that Dick and Jonathan end up as parents, something I don’t remember Roger expressing a desire for.  But the way the three—Dick, Jonathan, and Joshua—interact around each other and toward each other is, I have come to believe, a very idealized version of what Roger always wanted, and life, in its too often cruel way, never gave him.

Everything isn’t always perfect in the Dick-Jonathan-Joshua household.  Joshua is a child and can, at times, be, well, childlike.  Dick’s erratic work schedule often interferes with the running of the household; and as Jonathan gets more and more involved in his own job, his education, and his own business and activities, Dick sometimes finds himself jealous.  In other words, their household is like any household: sometimes chaotic, often unorganized, but always loving.  

I am more sad than I can describe to know that I’ll never learn how Joshua grows up, how Jonathan’s transition to his own business develops, nor how the three grow as a family.  They have become so real to me, that I am having a hard time accepting that I will not see the end of the story.  But I know Roger would have wanted that ending, and although I’ll never see it in print, I know in my heart how the story continues.  And as is the way with fantasies, this story doesn’t end with death; it just continues on and on.  That’s my gift to Roger.

On Reading Marcus Aurelius

“Everything that happens is either endurable or not.

If it’s endurable, then endure it.  Stop complaining.

If it’s unendurable . . . then stop complaining.  Your destruction will mean its end as well.

Just remember: you can endure anything your mind can make endurable, by treating it as in your interest to do so.

In your interest, or in your nature.”

The Meditations of Marcus Aurelius as translated by Gregory Hays, Book 10, 3

I’ve recently finished the wonderful Gregory Hays translation of The Meditations of Marcus Aurelius.  I am fascinated with the philosophy of Stoicism*, although I’m quick to point out I am by any reasonable definition not a true Stoic.  But I’m a Stoic wannabe.

Marcus was a Roman emperor; however, like most of the ruling class of the time, he was fluent in Greek, and the Meditations were written in Greek.  It seems clear that he never expected the book to be published in any form.  To me, the book seems more like a commonplace book; that is, it’s a collection of thoughts and quotes from others written down as they occurred to him.  He simply jotted them down as he felt the urge.  The book is divided into twelve sections or books, although these do not follow any chronological order.  And the overall approach is that of the Stoic; the quote above seems to me to epitomize the Stoic philosophy.

Rather than engage in a long (and probably not always accurate) interpretation of the book, I thought I would share a few quotes that seem to me to be representative of Marcus, his insight and, surprisingly, his humor.  The first quote may very well cause me to be excluded from the ranks of the Stoics:

—[From the literary critic Alexander, I learned] to not be constantly correcting people, and in particular not to jump on them whenever they make an error of usage or a grammatical mistake or mispronounce something, but just answer their question or add another example, or debate the issue itself (not their phrasing), or make some other contribution to the discussion—and insert the right expression, unobtrusively. [Book 1, 10]

—Not just that every day more of our life is used up and less and less of it is left, but this too: if we live longer, can we be sure out mind will still be up to understanding the world—to the contemplation that aims at divine and human knowledge?  If our mind starts to wander we’ll still go on breathing, go on eating, imaging things, feeling urges and so on.  But getting the most out of ourselves, calculating where our duty lies, analyzing what we hear and see, deciding whether it’s time to call it quits—all the things you need a healthy mind for . . . all those are gone.

So we need to hurry.

Not just because we move daily closer to death but also because our understanding—our grasp of the world—may be gone before we get there. [Book 3, 1]

—Suppose that a god announced that you were going to die tomorrow “or the day after.”  Unless you were a complete coward you wouldn’t kick up a fuss about which day it was—what difference could it make?  Now recognize that the difference between years from now and tomorrow is just as small. [Book 4, 47]

—In short, know this: Human lives are brief and trivial.  Yesterday a blob of semen; tomorrow embalming fluid, ash.[Book 4, 48]

—It’s silly to try to escape other people’s faults.  They are inescapable.  Just try to escape your own. [Book 7, 71]

—Alexander and Caesar and Pompey.  Compared with Diogenes, Heraclitus, Socrates?  The philosophers knew the what, the why, the how.  Their minds were their own.

The others? Nothing but anxiety and enslavement. [Book 8, 3]

—A straightforward, honest person should be like someone who stinks: when you’re in the same room with him, you know it. [Book 11, 15]

—There’s nothing more insufferable than people who boast about their own humility. [Book 12, 27]

———————-

*I could find no consistent “rules” for capitalizing Stoic or Stoicism.  A search on the internet had all sorts of suggestions.  I like this one the best and will use it:  “Stoical is of the Stoics, while stoical is of indifference to pain or pleasure. Then it gets more complicated: uncapitalized stoicism is the philosophy of the capitalized Stoics. The adverb stoically is uncapitalized. . . . To hell with all this!  From now on I’m capitalizing Stoic and Stoical, in the same way I would Christian, regardless of context.  I will also capitalize Stoicism in the same way I would Aristotelianism.  I’m undecided on what to do with stoically.”  [https://letthesewordsanswer.wordpress.com/2013/02/17/capitalizing-stoic/]  The Chicago Manual of Style has the words in caps unless they are “used metaphorically.”  Jeez!  I wonder if fretting about this makes me a Stoic?  Am I think stoically?  Nope: fretting about this just makes me a grammar nerd.