Practice Makes Perfect

I think every child mentally latches onto a person and elevates them to basically a hero status. Even though you don’t actually know them, the assumption is that whatever they do must be another expression of perfection. My idol in Junior High was an upperclassman from high school who could make a trombone sound like Pavarotti. He had competed in a variety of music competitions and he would hang his medal-laden band uniform in the hallway entrance to the music building. I would glance at his uniform every time we attended band class and the image of my uniform adorned with metals danced in my head. Likewise, he wore glasses with a thick black frame. I bet you have guessed it. I had glasses with a thick black frame.

I believe that we had started in beginner’s band in the fifth grade and my weapon of mass destruction was the tuba. I am sure that if I ever sought counseling on the subject there would be some deep and closely held reason for that choice. My sister had chosen the clarinet and the massive physical difference between the two might have contributed to the choice. The tuba, while being the most obvious instrument in the band, musically it was not intended to be a solo instrument like most of the others. This created a dilemma. To obtain the metals I so desperately needed I had to participate in the band solo competitions that rolled around once a year. When I told Taylor Stephenson the band director what I wanted to do he told me finding anything would be a tall order, but he would try. Consistent with his character he had found a solo piece specifically for a tuba within the week. Rather than take the tuba home to practice and put my family through unbearable pain and suffering I asked Mr. Stephenson if I could practice in the band room after school. Since he didn’t see that as a problem I would show up right after school just as he was leaving. He told me to turn off the lights and he would lock the door so I didn’t need to worry about that. As I had promised myself I would go set up my tuba and the music sheets but the temptation to take a quick look at those medals overtook me. Consequently, I would spend more time in fantasy land in the hallway than practicing on my solo. Before I knew it the time for the contest rolled around and fortunately the judges weren’t like the ones on “America’s Got Talent” where they could hit the buzzer and drive you off the stage. Out of kindness, they gave me a 3.

While I went through a period of major disappointment, the foremost lesson that came out of the Tuba solo competition was that I had become so focused on the prize, I didn’t spend the time needed to win it. In other words, set your goal but execute a logical plan to achieve it.

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When Mama Ain’t Happy…..

In every marriage, there are some rules that even though they aren’t in writing they have the force of the eleventh commandment. In ours, my Mother had made the rule that “Thou shalt not gamble”. Frankly, it was kind of an odd rule considering that they had basically bought their first house after World War II from Dad’s poker winnings from his time in the service. Likewise, Dad would mysteriously come up with the money for her birthday and Christmas gifts, but rules were rules. In our town, the temptation could find you even when you weren’t looking for it. Every year it would rear its evil head when The World Series would come around. One of the favorites was called the Series pool. The number of participants could vary based on the number of slots sold and the size of the bet. Dad’s favorite was a pool that only allowed 10 individuals in and the numbers were from 0-9. The total of the scores from all of the games would be added up and the last number in the total was the winner. In 1963 Dad bought into a $10 pool with the winning amount of $100. His number was 6. The series was between the Dodgers and the Yankees. The Dodgers had won the first three games and the total score number was at 13. The Dodgers pulled off a clean sweep and beat the Yankees in the fourth game with a score of 2 to 1. For the mathematicians in the crowd that brought the total to 16 and that made the number 6 the winner. As Paul Harvey would say, “Now for the rest of the story”.

It was 1963, in the 8^th grade, and even though cable had come to Clayton we did not have a TV. On special occasions, we would go over to Leland Jacob’s home but for the most part, we depended on radio station KLMX, the Amarillo Daily News and the Union County Leader. As I had said in previous blogs my parents were quite frugal and simply would not buy anything unless they could pay cash for it. Since mother was creating Dave Ramsey’s envelope program every penny was properly accounted for except, as you might have guessed, Dad’s gambling stash. Dad wanted to buy a TV and Mom had determined that they couldn’t afford it. Using reverse psychology Dad would openly express his opposition to the purchase of a TV in hopes that Mom would find a way to make it happen. Since it became obvious that this wasn’t going to work he decided to announce that he had violated the eleventh commandment and that HE was $100 richer. Mom immediately demanded that he turn over the money and told him that if he thought that he could afford to gamble, she could afford to buy a TV for the family. That afternoon, still steaming, she went down to Timmon’s Sales, picked out a TV, called the cable company and by the time Dad, with great remorse, came home at 5 we had a new black and white TV operating in the living room. I think Dad learned his lesson. 

Never Look A Gift Santa In The Mouth

It had been the tradition in our family for Mom and Dad to give Linda and me one gift and “Santa” would give us another one. Although it was never said, we knew if we ever expressed a disbelief in that jolly old gentleman from the north, the gravy train would be cut off. Consequently, in my seventh-grade year, Santa gave me a real printing press. It was rather small, and you could only feed 5 ½” x 8 ½” paper through it but the bite of printer’s ink ­­­left a lifetime impression on me. As I am sure you noticed, I had made it out of grade school! Not only did I move up a grade, the walking distance to school was reduced from uphill for a one-half mile to one block. Next, I actually had multiple teachers. It was like going from your General Practice Family Doctor to a Specialist who could operate on just one section of your brain.

Perhaps the one teacher who made the greatest impression on me that year was Charlsie Mae Harding. Known as Miss Harding to her students, she brought the State of New Mexico to life through her phenomenal history class. Born in 1911, she had graduated as Salutatorian from high school at the age of 15, graduated from West Texas Teachers College (now WTSU) in 1931, and taught for the next 50 years apart from one year, in the Clayton system. In 1977 she received the National Teacher of the Year Award and in 1983 she was named to the New Mexico Educators Hall of Fame. Physically a small woman, she was a giant for so many children.

I am sure you are wondering how Miss Harding could be linked to my new printing press. Well, I have a natural tendency to look at almost everything from a business point of view. For example, while a printing press is fun to play with, a printing press that makes money is even better. After I had printed letterheads for my mother and tally pads for my parent’s card club the time had arrived to make some real money. The high school had a newspaper but alas the Jr. High did not have the benefit of a reliable news source. I consulted with Miss Harding about publishing a periodical called “Jr. High News” and since she had been an advisor for the school newspaper she freely provided a wealth of information from the best type of stories to advertising sources and other income. From that point forward all my spare time was consumed interviewing, writing, setting type and then printing the initial FREE issue. The praise sent my ego out of the ballpark. I just knew that I had a winner and went to work the next day on selling subscriptions. If Al Gore had asked me years later about the difficulty of turning a free information source into a money-making proposition, I would have advised him to avoid the word Free! The sad part of this story is that the sale of subscriptions was slower than a crippled turtle. Since everything was prepared to go to press, I did publish a second free issue of the paper, but lessons were learned and filed for later applications.

As a closing note, Miss Harding passed away in 1998 at the age of 86 leaving an unparalleled legacy.