This arrangement of The Lord’s Prayer was composed in 1954 for performance as part of the Orthodox Liturgy/Service at St. George Orthodox Church in Charleston, WV. The regular Sunday service, which was performed by the priest and cantors, was interspersed with musical responses and liturgy by the choir. The Lord’s Prayer, performed at every service, was sung by the choir, with the final lines being sung/chanted by the priest. (Note: it is my understanding that the final words “For Thou art the Kingdom, the Power, and the Glory Forever and Ever” are not included in the Roman Catholic or Orthodox congregations’ recitations of The Lord’s Prayer, but rather are stated by the attending priest.)
The music being performed at that time — and in that Church — was from the Russian, sung in English. Accordingly, I attempted to give this arrangement a reasonable Russian flavor in keeping with the rest of the “Sunday music.” Notably, the church membership was primarily Syrian/Lebanese, as Charleston had a sizable Lebanese community. The priest at that time, Father Raphael Husson, was Lebanese. Nevertheless, the Russian music was in place when I arrived as choir director, and it was/is indeed quite beautiful.
As an integral part of the service, the Lord’s Prayer was performed in straightforward manner, without repetitions of words or music. Indeed, this version may be inappropriate as a regular Protestant-type anthem (partly due to its brevity), but could perhaps be performed to serve some other special occasion.
Recording made in 1955 of St. George Orthodox Church Choir in Charleston, WV, singing this arrangement.
One of my best lifetime pals, albeit inanimate, is my Martin guitar. Purchased in 1951, just after I finished my second year at Morris Harvey College, I saw the Martin in the Galperin Music Store in downtown Charleston. The sales people knew me; I was in the store often, visiting with friends who played on local dance bands, as I did. So the sales manager agreed to sell me the Martin on time, at no interest. The cost was $80.00. The Martin, a “double-aught 17,” formally a model 00-17, was built in 1948. Incidentally, the 00-17 has been a great seller, and is still made by Martin.
With excitement, I told Kenny that we were now in business. At the time I owned an $8.00 guitar — “Stella,” which was virtually unplayable, but I had been whacking at it as Kenny and I sang duets. Now, this new instrument gave us what we needed: a nice-sounding accompaniment. Kenny was in town for the summer from college at the University of Cincinnati, where he was an engineering major, so we were both free in the evenings after work. In his dad’s car, we would ride out to Little Coal River, not far from town, to an isolated spot to swim and make music. Hot weather. We’d first jump in the river, splash for a few minutes, get out and dry off. Then sing country favorites like “Bury Me Beneath the Willow,” “An Acre of Diamonds,” and so forth. It all came together with the Martin, playing rhythm and chords.
From there, we began going to the local drive-in restaurant, The Parkette, in downtown Charleston. We’d roll the windows down, order a grilled cheese and coffee — probably about 30 cents, tune the Martin, and sing. It happened often enough that we would see other customers who were familiar with our routine, and even pull up close to us to listen. (More recently, having told the drive-in tale to someone, we are now known as the “Parkette Brothers.”)
From there, the Martin was with me on every camping trip, or virtually so, during the next sixty years. The sad news: I mistreated the Martin badly, because I had never bought a case. So after years of leaning against a tree overnight, lying on its back in the tent, it became weather-worn, scratched, and finally with a serious crack in the box. But play on I did. At some juncture, all that stopped, and the guitar went to the front closet.
Then, Leslie became really interested in playing and I gladly gave here the Martin to take home and use. She took it on herself to have it overhauled/rebuilt, and it is now as good as new. The company that did the work was fascinated by the guitar, and especially interested in the name “Galperin Music” at the top of the neck, still readable with a logo. Nowadays, when Leslie and I attend our annual Bluegrass Camp in N.C., the Martin is one of the main items of interest.
About the sound: this guitar is easy on the fingers, perfectly playable, with a sound that is neither aggressive nor timid — just lovely and confident. Beyond these words you’d simply have to hear it. Everyone who has ever played it has commented on the lasting quality of the instrument.
A scary event: Leslie, Sherwood and Hannah have a “music room” in their house, just the right size to hold a baby grand, cello, three guitars and sound system. Shortly after Leslie returned home with the Martin, they were out one evening and upon returning home found that the house had been broken into. What was missing? The Martin. Leslie became a sleuth: working with law enforcement, going to pawn shops, the works. Then: a break. The intruder had hocked the guitar, and it was returned to Leslie. This is a very short version of a very numbing event. It’s hard to imagine that guitar ever being in any family but mine. Of course, the Martin will belong to Leslie someday — perhaps sooner than later, depending on how much longer I want to bang on it.
My first musical instrument was the flute. The flute had been bought for David, who four years earlier found more interesting things to do than blow across that mouthpiece. So when I reached fourth grade, it was determined that it was my turn with the flute — band lessons at school. Mr. Raspillaire, our band director at South Charleston High School, came to our school — Zogg O’Dell Elementary — weekly to teach our band class.
The above is a long introduction for a very quick ending. After three or four lessons, I told Mom that the flute was hard to hold up to my mouth with my right arm, and that I was not destined to be a flautist. So much for that. I was allowed to become a Raspillaire dropout.
Then, in fifth grade, we all got Tonettes — those plastic whistle-like instruments with holes to cover, changing the pitch — like a flute. Alice and I formed an immediate duet; we picked up on how to play songs, in harmony yet. Of course, by that time Alice had taken over the flute business, and continued to play for sixty years or so. More later on that. Anyway, we became the hottest act of our fifth grade, and showed our stuff at every chance.
About that same time, I had a sick spell and stayed home from school for about a week. Listening to local radio all day became a real bore, so one day Mom brought me a Marine Band Harmonica. I played my first tune, “Silent Night” I think, about two minutes later. Later on, I got a Honer Chromatica with the side button to play half steps. It was 1939; we had very little, so I don’t know where Mom found the money to pay for that “French Harp,” but somehow she did.
Then, one day Dad came home with a mandolin. Actually a banjo mandolin — strung and played like a mandolin with the body of a banjo — a round body with a skin top, with threaded screw-like tighteners all around the top edge. Dad had played a mandolin in his youth and someone gave him this one, so he was going to resume his own musical career. Sadly, I learned that Dad was no mandolinist, nor could he carry a tune or beat a rhythm. But I was proud of him anyway. The mandolin, of course, was donated to me, and I had real fun teaching myself how to use the pick across pairs of strings and play simple tunes. “Old Joe Clark” became my favorite. I never became a really good mandolin player; my young life was taking off in so many other directions — watching girls, all that, that music was merely a pleasant but brief part of my day.
Seventh grade: junior high school. Alice was having such fun with the flute, talking all the time about band practice, etc., that I got the bug again. So I went to Mr. Raspillaire and told him I was back for more, that I wanted to be in the band. I said the drums would be good. He started me with a pair of drumsticks and a practice pad, and I was ready to go. I carried my drumsticks with me all day at school, tapping on every desktop, railing, book — anything that had a flat surface. Then one day I was too energetic with the sticks and snapped the bead off one of them on the newel post at the bottom of the stairwell. You guessed it — I was a Raspillaire dropout for the second time.
Pete Raspillaire – Band Director, South Charleston High School
By that time Alice and I filled the house with music every day — she with her flute, me with the harmonica and mandolin, and both of us singing silly duets. I knew I really liked music — I just hadn’t found my niche. Alice and I both joined the youth (“Young Peoples’”) choir at church, and David was teaching me to jitterbug in the living room — Les Brown’s “Leap Frog” was the song of choice, playing every few minutes on the radio.
Ninth grade. That fall, Alice had her high school band uniform. Dazzling orange and black, with a leather shoulder strap. One Saturday she got dressed in the uniform early in the day. When I asked why so early, she airily mentioned that the band was going to an away game, on a school bus, no less. Then she added that the band traveled a good bit, and band members never had to buy a ticket to a game. I was intrigued. Go to a Black Eagles football game free? Ride the band bus to away games? What had I been missing! Of course, it was too late to join the band for the rest of football season, but in January, I went to “Pete” Raspillaire and told him I wanted to join the band. My motive, of course, was partly about the band bus, but I really did want to join for the music, having watched Alice’s progress for several years. I just don’t know why, but Mr. Raspillaire gave me yet a third chance! I do know that since Alice was a budding star, he perhaps had a soft spot for the Farley twins. In any case, he told me to see him after school that Friday.
So when I went to the band room on Friday, he presented me with a baritone sax that was school owned, and gave me a single sheet of paper with the C scale fingering diagram drawn in pencil. He said to take the sax home over the weekend and come back on Monday ready to show him what I could do. That was my big break. I took, or rather lugged the sax home, took it from the case and went to work. I soon found out that some of the keys didn’t totally close over their holes, there were loose springs, worn-out pads and the rest, but after several hours’ work it was playable. I looked at the C scale drawing, and, remembering the Tonette, I was in business. I fiddled around with the side keys, some Tonette fingering combinations, and the rest, and felt ready. I was so proud I even got Mom’s silver polish and cleaned the sax to a presentable shine. After working out the C scale, I actually learned a couple of others — probably F and G, along with three or four simple melodies.
When I played for Pete on Monday, he said OK, I was now a band member. Obviously, that changed my life forever, but that’s another story.
That spring, after four months in the band, I was selected to play baritone sax in the All-County Band. So I joined Alice and we were off.
My next instrument: cymbals. That fall, Pete understood that the baritone sax made no sense in a marching band, so he told me to play cymbals in the drum section. He gave me a quick lesson and I was up and running with yet another instrument. Of course, I couldn’t wait for concert season, when I would get back to the baritone sax. But that was not to be. You guessed it . . . my next instrument.
Oboe. A new student had moved to town, and she could really — really — play oboe. Her name was Jean Pike. In November, after football, I went to band class, got the sax out of its case, and we had our band rehearsal. As the bell rang Pete — I’m calling him by his nickname now because it’s so much easier than keying Raspillaire every time, and we all called him Pete behind his back — Pete told me to wait after class. I did, and to my surprise so did Jean Pike. Pete told me he’d like me to play oboe, but that I had a choice. Of course, the way he laid it out: every fine band has two oboe players, and so on. So I didn’t really have a choice. How could I turn Pete down after all the chances he had given me? So I said OK. Jean took me on as a student, and for the first time I had a true mentor who knew the instrument. I had never had a real lesson — even if you count the flute, the Tonette, the drumsticks, the harmonica, the mandolin, even the sax. I learned quickly — the fingering was so similar to that of the sax, and the double reed part came fairly easily. I was very, very proud to be named to the All-County Band that year, on a different instrument.
I finished high school as an oboist — neither Pete nor I had any ideas about new instruments.
By the way, when we were juniors, Pete asked Alice and me to play something in the Lions Club Minstrel Show, an annual fundraising event. Reluctantly, we agreed, not knowing just what to do. I told Alice I simply would not stand on stage with an oboe at a minstrel show. Bad match. So we got creative: flute and harmonica duet. We played “Waitin’ On the Robert E. Lee,” a ragtime-era train song, by popular request, and then we knocked ‘em out with “Temptation,” a sultry, Latin-type tune with lots of parallel major chords and chromatic runs. Lots of fun to drag those chords out of the Honer, with its chromatic button.
Morris Harvey Swing Band; Alan is on far right of front row
So, when I entered Morris Harvey College, I naturally signed up for band, chorus, music theory, etc. — all part of my curriculum as an announced business major. I guess my mind and heart were in two different places. The college owned a baritone sax, which I played. Then, because I was really into dance band and jazz, I talked Dad into signing off on the purchase of a new King Super 20 tenor sax. My rationale to Dad was that I could earn money for school by playing on weekends, which was true, and which I did. The tenor cost $180, and I was paid about $9.00, the then-Union scale, for a three-hour dance gig. So if you do the math you can see that the tenor paid for itself, and of course I made the monthly payments to Gorby’s Music for the purchase. Incidentally, I had to sell the tenor to my good friend Eddie Beulike two years later for $180 — enough to stay in school another semester.
A note here: when the college learned what I already knew; that I was a music major, the woodwind teacher found out about my oboe days in high school, and immediately announced that I was an oboe major. So be it, I thought. I finished my degree as an oboist, played my graduation recital, and went on to play occasionally with the Charleston Symphony Orchestra. But I also continued to play sax in local bands for ten or so years, until we moved from Charleston to Roanoke.
Back to 1950: My next instrument was my first guitar — bought at Gorby’s Music in South Charleston for $8.00. My excuse was that, with no piano at home, I could use the guitar to work out chords, etc. for my music theory class. The real reason? It’s no secret that I really loved country music along with all the other varieties, and the song Wildwood Flower, as performed by Maybelle Carter, had a fascinating guitar solo. I really bought that Stella so I could learn to play Wildwood Flower. Actually, the guitar did help — a little — with my theory class.
As is well-known today, in 2014, I bought a Martin guitar when I was 19. It stands in my front room as I write these memories, and it is in fine condition, ready to pass on to Leslie at any time now. Back then, I learned some bluegrass stuff like the Lester Flatt G Run, and I could do a weak mimic of Earl Scruggs’ style. So that guitar and I, along with Kenny and his ukulele, had some real fun. Leslie played an important role in the repair and rehabilitation of my Martin, and it’s the sweetest sounding, easiest playing guitar I’ve ever picked up. Leslie loves it, and it is hers. And the Martin knows Leslie; knows she can pick.
When I think about it, the oboe, the tenor sax, and the guitar were my all-time favorite instruments. The oboe and sax were around for just a few short years, while I’ve been picking the Martin for sixty-one years.
My next instrument wasn’t really mine . . . it was Leslie’s piano. We purchased a Yamaha piano for Leslie when she was about eight. She studied well, practiced well, and was basically well-taught by her (second) teacher. She took the piano with her when she moved to Charlotte, NC after college, and then traded it for a Yamaha Clavinova (electronic) piano, better known as a “keyboard.” That was in about 1987. Later, when she moved to Raleigh, she bought a very fine Yamaha Grand, and gave me the Clavinova, which stands beside the Martin guitar in the front room. I have always loved piano, and while I had no training whatever, I’m able to get around with a few chords and play favorite pop tunes, along with a couple of very fundamental works by Bach, Chopin and Beethoven. But the popular songs from my jazz/dance band days are my real favorites. I don’t play well enough for public performance, but as my own audience I am not displeased.
Finally, I suppose I should tell you of my most long-lasting musical instrument: my singing voice, for the voice is a musical instrument in the truest sense.
I think I began singing as soon as I could talk. As a young kid, Mom sang to and with me, teaching me songs from her own youth, as well as the best known western ballads, along with a smattering of pop tunes. As I mentioned earlier, Alice and I, being together all the time, sang together with progressively more advanced vocal abilities. We were in the youth choir at church together, and so on. Then, in high school I joined the chorus, and went on from there. I sang with a couple of my dance bands, and was in my college choir for four years. Along with all that, I sang, sang, sang to myself — all brands of pop, country and classical. And today, with my raspy voice, I sing, sing, sing. Aloud, but to myself.
I started as a soprano — ninth grade — and was a tenor in college (not by choice or voice quality; the director needed tenors more than baritones and I was elected), and today I am a true baritone. You probably wouldn’t think much of my singing — I’m actually an amateur at it. One semester of voice in college, and that’s it. But I know the basics very well — voice placement, breathing, diction, phrasing, projection, etc. etc. And you have read from my teaching days that I had really good high school groups, along with a really fine church choir.
So while my fingers grow stiff, and my facility with my hands fades, my last remaining musical instrument will probably be my voice. With its signature asthma-induced wheeziness, it’s mine and I’m keeping it.
Finally, while at Columbia I learned that — at Columbia at least — the conductor’s baton is considered a musical instrument. When I first head that I wondered “what’s going on here?” But as I had declared conducting as my chosen performance medium, it occurred that they were absolutely right; that the conductor is performing music with the baton.
Aside from incidental clarinet and alto sax work with dance bands, there you have it — the story of my musical instruments. They have their own stories too, but except for the Martin guitar and the keyboard they’re not around to tell those stories. I have to think — or certainly hope — they liked me as much as I liked them, for I took good care of them, they were played well and responded in kind — they fulfilled their life missions. I guess you know by now that music is my joy, my private and public fun time, a deep well of life memories. While I have had many, many exciting experiences in my profession as an educator, and while my interests include reading, writing, research, and the rest, it always — always — comes back to music. I’m talking, of course, about those motivations aside from family and friends, which are truly the essence of who we are. So if I’m remembered as the guy who couldn’t go through a day without a musical experience of some sort, that’ll please me greatly.
When I was a kid we never had a car at home. I figured my Dad could drive, but we just didn’t have one, and I never asked him or myself why. When I finished high school and enrolled at Morris Harvey College, I rode the local transit company’s buses for four years. But even then, I didn’t wonder about why we had no car in the family. We just didn’t.
So I finished college without even thinking about having to own a car. Then reality struck. I was offered a teaching job (music) where I’d have to teach kids in ten elementary schools, plus my “real job,” directing two junior high bands. With only a couple of weeks to do the car deal, I was recommended by a musician friend to the local Ford dealer. We came to an agreement on a 1953 Ford Fairlane for $2,100. That’s when the fun began.
I went to see my grandfather (Granddad Henry Hale), who was a retired coal miner. His miner’s pension was $50.00 a month. I told him about the teaching deal and the Ford, and asked him if he could loan me the down payment: $500! We were sitting on his little front porch, where he always sat while chewing Favorite Chewing Tobacco. He spat and said he’d be right back.
He went into the house, leaving me wondering what was up. He returned, sat down and showed me his money belt — which no one knew about. It was like a cartridge belt — snap-close leather pouches all the way around. He fished into a couple of pouches, and produced five hundred dollars, which he handed to me.
Then he said to wait a minute. He pulled a pencil and a scrap of paper from his shirt pocket, and wrote on it: IOU Henry Hale $500, signed: Alan Farley. I signed the note — smiling to myself — and promised I’d pay him back as soon as possible. With a teaching salary of $280 per month for ten months, that was a heavy debt.
I then went to the Ford dealership with my $500. We signed papers for three year financing, and then the salesman gave the keys and said “the car is yours.” He pointed to the Ford Fairlane which sat on the showroom floor. It was only then that I knew that I had to drive that car home, and that I did not, had not, had no license to drive. Had never driven.
Without making much of it, I took the keys as though I were an old hand, got in the car while they opened the wide glass drive-in entrance through which display cars were moved. Gulp. I knew I’d have to fake it and drive home, but I hadn’t counted on taking that car out of the showroom.
Somehow, I made it out of the showroom on onto the street.
That’s about it. I drove without a license for a few days, avoiding main-traveled roads. Then I went to the State Police barracks where they conducted behind-the-wheel tests for issuing drivers’ licenses. (There was no written test at that time.) The sergeant got in the car with me, gave me the test, which I passed. Then he asked, “How did you get here to take this test?” “Well, I drove this car.” “You drove this car to the State Police barracks without a driver’s license?” I turned red. “Just kiddin’,” he said.
A little more than a year later, I went to my grandparents’ home and told granddad that I had the final payment on the $500 loan. He said, OK. I gave him the money and he reached in his pocket and produced the original IOU.
Then he said, “You’re thirty dollars short. Six percent interest is thirty dollars.”
I wrote him a check for the additional thirty dollars, knowing that he was just teaching me a lesson about money. He chewed, spat, and laughed. And I laughed with him.
My Second Car
I literally drove the wheels off that Ford. My teaching duties required a lot of travel, and, being the proud owner of a CAR, I drove it everywhere. Kenny and I hung out in the evenings at the local drive-in (Parkette, later to become Shoney’s), and so on. We would sit in the car, order a grilled cheese and coffee — about thirty-five cents, and he with his uke, I with my Martin, would pick and sing, drink coffee, wave at regulars, and just have a big old time. So my Ford gathered a lot of miles in less than three years — about 95,000. And it was time to trade. You have to understand that cars in those days were built to last for only three years — planned obsolescence, they say, and my Ford was about worn out.
Kenny was in school at the time at the University of Cincinnati, studying mechanical engineering. He was on a work-study program where he’d go to school for seven weeks and come home to his job with the State Road Department for the next seven weeks. So although he was in school, we saw each other often, and car talk was part of the deal. Kenny got going about British sports cars, and I latched on. I wound up at the local foreign car dealership and traded the worn-out Ford for a 1956 MGA Roadster.
Amazing!! It was the first year for that model, and it was a truly wow-level car. A short time later, Kenny bought a used Austin Healey — red — and we had many two-car rallies up and down the mountain roads around Charleston. What a time.
At that time I was still playing bari sax in a local big dance band. Of course, the sax wouldn’t fit in the MG boot, so it rode up front in the passenger seat. Kinda cramped my style, actually. . . I couldn’t take anyone with me to a dance job, or “gig,” as we called it.
The MG cost $2,800 new. That was a lot back then. As my second car, it was a truly neat driving experience. We were a sporty pair, and had great fun wheeling around West Virginia, which is a wonderful driving range for imported sport roadsters. We even wore the classic British caps — hot stuff.
I — we — drove the MG until after Carol and I were married, and traded it for spiffy Alfa Romeo Spyder. Then Carol got pregnant, so we went for a used ’55 Chevy just before Patrick was born. Obviously there would be no room for Carol and me and Patrick in that Alpha. No regrets; as much fun as the roadsters were, Patrick became the center of our universe until we had Leslie three years later, and Amy a few years later. Our universe simply expanded.
Carol driving the Alpha Romeo in a SAHS Homecoming Parade
The Ford was special, as my first car. The MG moved the bar. Fifteen or so cars later, they bring a good feeling. But I do go on.
This happened in the spring of 1948. Alice and I were juniors in high school, totally wrapped up in the band. Alice, by that time, had become a really fine flutist, and played with the Charleston Symphony Orchestra. She was fiercely dedicated, and was by far the more accomplished musician of the two of us. I, on the other hand, was into 40s style big band jazz, along with my affection for bluegrass and other music styles. But — aside from my baritone sax, I did have a special instrument: a chromatic harmonica, upon which one could play the most sultry chords and melodies.
Our band director, Pete Raspillaire, was a member of the local Lions Club. (Huh? How did we know that? Well, we didn’t.) We didn’t until he asked us to stay after band class one day, which had Alice and me looking at each other with raised eyebrows. When the band room cleared, he sat down with us and said that we were going to perform at the Lions Club Spring Minstrel Show, and annual fund raiser for the club.
One never questioned Pete. If he said something, it was so. But as we looked at him quizzically, he simply told us the dates — two nights — and to work it out; we were to perform some kind of music for the cause. No mention of what kind of music, or which instruments. I assumed he meant flute and saxophone, so he was in for a small surprise. (It occurred to me much later that, being the local band director, the club had told Pete it was his job to provide musical entertainment for the show.)
Being my usual brain-dead teenage self, I had no idea what a “Minstrel Show” was. We asked at home, and were told it was entertainment in which white “folks” dressed up like “black folks,” along with blackened faces, and did comedy for an all-white audience. Of course, the history books say the Minstrel shows were hugely popular in white America at that time. Online photos of blackface actors and playbills will jar your senses.
That’s what it was, and we were there. So Mom fixed us up in matched outfits: Alice in a dress of course (in 1948 it was a dress or skirt and top, never ever pants or slacks), and I in my khakis and long-sleeved shirt. After visiting a rehearsal for about 10 minutes when we were shown when and where to make our appearance, we were ready.
What we didn’t understand was the blackface. At the rehearsal all the Lions were just regular people; they hadn’t blackened their faces nor were they in costume. So on the night of the show, we were peeking out from backstage and saw all that and were well, stunned. But when our cue came we went on stage, smiled, bowed, curtsied, and did our act.
Alice with her flute, I with the harmonica, played the great Perry Como hit “Temptation.”
Talk about sultry. That song was made for my harmonica: C Major chord to C# Major and back, simply by pressing the side button. Damn, I was cool! And of course, the flute solo was equally exotic. We received a roaring ovation, and cries for an encore. We were ready. I played a solo on Waiting for The Robert E. Lee, followed by our singing of that Mississippi River showboat song in harmony. Then another harmonica chorus and out. More applause.
That was our debut in show business. Talk about mixed emotions. We loved the experience of public performance, and the applause, but were really frustrated by the shock of blackface. We just weren’t ready for that. While we had knowledge of the issue of race, we hadn’t encountered the bald reality of racism in any real sense. We both went on to solo performances which weren’t scarred by that experience. Alice played beautifully with various groups, while I eventually turned to the baton as my performance medium. I can say, and Alice would agree, that to please an audience with one’s talent is truly exciting and rewarding. And if Alice could say so, she would agree that our debut was a terrific experience in spite of the strange circumstance. And the best part of it all was that we did it together. We were a real twin-brother-sister act in every way in those days. Being a twin can’t be described, so I’ll leave it at that.
I’ll be brief here. Only to say that music permeated my life. It rang in my head at all hours from a very early age. And at about eight, I started to memorize, without thinking about it. “A Tisket, A Tasket,” sung by Ella Fitzgerald: I remember where I was when it first came to mind — I was walking on a dirt path close to the house in, I think, 1939.
And so on. The rest of this is just a sketch of my time with music. I could make this a “chapter,” but that would go beyond the intended purpose of these writings. This has to be either too brief or too long; for your sake, I have chosen brief. You will find other references to my ‘music days’ elsewhere in these pages.
It goes like this:
First instrument: In fifth grade, we all had Tonettes, a plastic whistle-like instrument with finger holes to change notes. Alice and I excelled at Tonette, playing lots of duets — just by basic aptitude. (See a later piece called “my musical instruments”, which tells the stories of all my instruments.)
High school band: baritone sax, cymbals, bass drum, and, finally, oboe.
College: started as “business major,” but took freshman band, choir, theory. From there on I was a music major, just didn’t know it until the end of my sophomore year. I took virtually every music course offered. During that time I was saturated with music: dance bands, U.S. Army Reserve Band, college band, college choir, church choir, and college courses. Took a Bachelor of Music degree in 1953.
While most of my music activity was at the “serious,” or “classical” level, I had from an early age learned to love country music — I suppose it was somehow tied to the “country” side of my family: the Hales were true country folk, and Granddad Hale played banjo, clawhammer style. I found “The Grand Ole Opry” on Saturday night radio, and learned many country songs by listening to early bluegrass music. And I had a guitar, which is still with me today — a Martin, purchased in 1951.
After two initial years of local band directing, I became music director at St. Albans High School, teaching band, choir, stage band, general music, and theory. The music program grew to about 350 students. All this time I was playing in a large dance band, had a church choir, played in the Army Reserve Band, and became music director for the Charleston Light Opera Guild, directing the music for several Broadway musicals such as Oklahoma, South Pacific, The King and I, and so on.
In 1957 I began a master’s degree program at Teachers College, Columbia, where I chose conducting as my performing medium. (I went during summers only; kept my job at St. Albans.) I was a winner of conducting competition twice while there, and took a Master’s in Music and Music Education in 1959. It was there that I learned how to memorize a musical score — in the conducting competition we had to conduct from memory. From that time forward I never directed a public performance otherwise, except for the Broadway shows, which of course were so involved with staging, cues to singers, watching the crowd and watching for the unexpected that working from memory was not possible — for me, at least.
In 1963, we moved to Salem, Virginia, where I became band director at Andrew Lewis High School. Then in 1968 I left the classroom for work in research and development of innovative programs, with the hope of helping make school a better place for students beyond my classroom.
During my teaching career, I received high compliments for the performances of my students, for which I was grateful. I experienced moments of pure joy when my performers — my students — played and sang beyond their notions of their individual abilities. As with most musicians, I can cite specific times and places when that kind of magic occurred. When it does occur, everyone is aware of it; that is, all those involved in the performance. Not just the performers — the conductor as well. You’re all part of it, equal in all respects, having the same “out of body” experience. You just know. Both in performing and attending performances by others, I have been brought to moments of true joy countless times by the sheer beauty of great music well presented. A lot of people never have the chance to experience that, and for those who do — well, it’s what you live for. It can happen any time — in rehearsal, in a public performance — anywhere.
So it was with a sense of uneasiness, in 1968, that I went on to other pursuits. Leaving the classroom was one of the toughest decisions I ever made, but looking back, I have no regrets, for my ‘second’ career, in curriculum development, research and other administrative areas, was challenging, enriching and enjoyable. While I missed the daily pleasure of being with my students as we engaged music, I believe that in taking on a “new” career I did, in at least a small way, help make school a better place for students. But leaving the classroom was not just leaving music, and there remained a part of me that wanted to be with my “kids,” my fellow musicians, for all the remaining days of my career. But music has never left me, nor have I left it. There is nothing more enjoyable, nothing more agreeable, refreshing, moving, inspiring, fun, entertaining, powerful — than music. It still rings in my head constantly. My career in music was satisfying beyond description. While I went on to other things, both academic and personal, music has been the one constant in my life, and so it will surely remain. I still bang on the keyboard, pick the guitar, and sing when it pleases. And I hear, though not often enough, the music of Mozart, Scarlatti, Beethoven, Mahler, Ravel, Bach, Chopin, Palestrina, Verdi and the rest, and it is always as if I’ve never heard it before.
I was a lucky young kid. I guess I just fell into it; never gave it much thought. I learned how to work for money. There were several jobs that came available in my early life, and they were all great experiences. And since I grew up in the Great Depression and World War II, it was expected of many boys my age. The benefit to the whole family was significant: any wage earner in the family lessened the pressure on the “man of the house.” Remember, in those days a great percentage of mothers were stay-at-home moms, so a kid who could earn his own spending money was a family plus.
I hasten to add that if I had a true need for money, my parents would find a way to provide it. But there was an unspoken family understanding that money was scarce, and that only our most pressing needs could be afforded. So we — Dave, Alice and I — lived by that understanding. The money I got from my jobs was mine to save, spend or share. I shared some with Alice; she was my twin, and she was a girl — girls back then didn’t work at any job until they were old enough to “babysit,” the only job available to them. Dave? Well, Dave was four years older than I, and had had paper routes, etc.
My first job for money (I did a few things around the house as part of parental expectations, but that wasn’t what I would call a “job.”) was helping my uncle Paul dig a basement beneath his house. He had dug out an area about ten feet square, and hired me to come to his house when I could, and take shovel in hand, fill the wheelbarrow, and push it out back and dump it behind the back lot. I was about twelve at the time. The deal was I would get lunch, and he would pay me fifteen cents an hour. (The minimum wage in 1941 was thirty cents an hour, but it didn’t apply to me, and this was a family deal.)
Well, that sounded just fine — better than sitting around the house and getting nothing. So I started the job. I weighed no more than 60 or 70 pounds, so pushing that wheelbarrow was really tough, and if I filled it too full I couldn’t push it at all. Then one day, after about four weeks on the job, I strained my lower back — to a point of some real pain. Paul said that was enough, my health was more important than our arrangement. We totaled up my time, and he paid me in full: six dollars. A small fortune for Paul, and probably undeserved. Plus the lunches. That was the only job I had that summer. I was more proud than you can imagine of that six dollar bulge in my pocket.
The next summer I went big time: a paper route for the Charleston Gazette. I would report at 5 a.m. every morning, fold my papers, put ‘em in a shoulder bag and make my deliveries to about 110 customers. Then every Friday I would go to each customer on the route and collect for the week’s papers: thirty-five cents. From that I would pay the “substation manager,” a guy who worked full-time for the Gazette, whatever they charged, and kept the rest. That’s when I learned about incentive: the better I collected, the more I could keep.
My customers were mostly very nice about paying, but some were hard to catch at home. There was one guy in particular who was never at home on Friday, so his ‘bill’ had run up to about three dollars: a small treasure. It happened that as I was delivering my route one Saturday morning before daylight, his house was alive with laughter and noises. I knocked on his door. He came, and in a tipsy voice asked who the hell I was. I told him, and that he owed me three dollars for his papers over the past few weeks. He smiled, forked over a five, and said keep the change. Then he invited me into his party. I said I was busy with my route. Scared to death.
One more quick story about my paper route: On August 14, 1945, our manager called all the delivery boys to the substation. He told us that an “Extra was coming out and that we could sell them on the street. “JAPAN SURRENDERS!!”
My route included the employee entrance to the Union Carbide plant on U.S. Route 60 in South Charleston, so I grabbed a big bundle of papers and hightailed it to the plant entrance. Since it was part of my “territory,” I claimed possession of the plant entrance. Luckily, employees were reporting for the evening shift, which began at 3:00 p.m. And the day shift guys were coming out of the plant. I had customers going both ways, and sold every paper within about twenty minutes.
The excitement of Japan’s WWII surrender was electric. Workers were literally throwing money at me. One guy gave me a dollar bill and kept running. (The papers cost five cents.) Money-wise, I cleaned up, and that was in itself momentous. But beyond that, I got caught up in the enthusiasm of the event — the surrender of Japan — to the point that I was like a kid at the circus. We had been in a terrible Pacific war that every kid knew about. We had followed it since December 7, 1941. And now it was over. What a day.
And that evening, on the streets of downtown South Charleston, people were in the streets, yelling, laughing, celebrating. Cars were going up the main highway to Charleston with people shouting out the windows. (Gasoline was rationed; most drivers had little to spare.) Everything was scarce — I saw people in one car going up the highway to celebrate, and the wheels of their car had no tires! Driving on the rims, it was that big a deal to them. Tires or not, the war with Japan was over. It was that kind of a crazy day and night, and I — me — scrawny, thirteen-year-old Alan Farley, had had a part in it. Just think about that. As I said before, what a day.
After that, I had summer jobs as a car hop in a root beer drive-in, an usher in a theatre, and a stock room boy in a hardware store. Some of the time I worked two jobs at once. Then, my last “early” job was really different. The City of South Charleston, under the direction of the Police Department, decided to paint parking ‘stripes’ on the main streets. The parking was side to side, angled to the curb. The stripes were to be in yellow paint, about five inches wide. I somehow heard they were looking for someone to help the painter, and got the job. The painter was Shorty, a really scruffy short guy who was a sometime house painter. He was actually very nice to me, friendly to all, and a known regular around the local beer halls. Shorty and I would report to Police headquarters at 4:00 a.m., and a cop would drive us, along with our buckets and brushes, to that day’s starting point. Shorty would stand back from the curb, squint, and decide the angle of the stripe. Then we would paint — freehand! No guides, just Shorty’s eye. By the end of the summer, those stripes were at all possible angles; some slots were wide, others narrow. Here’s part of the reason: Al Wells’ pool room, located at the midpoint of all our work locations, opened at nine. Every morning at about five till, Shorty would tell me to keep painting; he’d be right back. Most mornings, when he returned, Shorty would be strangely glassy-eyed and very happy — and that’s when the paint lines would start to wander. The cop who transported us would also drop by to see if we were OK. He would just shake his head and drive on.
It was a great job for two summers. I was paid pretty well, there was no pressure, and Shorty was responsible for all the mistakes. I was home by about 12:30, in time for lunch and then catch a bus to Rock Lake Pool. At the pool I’d tell my buddies the latest Shorty story. Who says that work isn’t fun? I have to say that I was more fortunate than many other kids. I knew plenty of boys who would have done as I did — they just didn’t get the chance, either because they lived in very rural areas or for family reasons.
(Back then, and later and later as an adult, I became accustomed to physical work. Work that involved pick and shovel, mowing scythe and ax, digging, pulling, lifting, sweating, cussing the tools and the boss — the kind of work that brings a certain satisfaction no other activity can provide. One does those things and gains enormous respect for those whose lives are tied to hard hat, blue collar stuff, day after day. I wish the politicians would be required to live that life for a few months. Just think.) After high school, I continued to work summers — at more substantive yet physical jobs — until I was through college, and early into my teaching career. But those weren’t “early” jobs, so I won’t go into that.
I was ten, I think. I had, during the previous several months, become addicted to hillbilly music, as it was called then. I had been kept home from school with a sore throat that wouldn’t go away, so during the long afternoons I would listen to local radio — AM only, of course, and country music was the fare. That led to my discovery of The Grand Ole Opry on Saturday nights, so I soaked it up. The sound of a mandolin really got me. Banjo, fiddle, all the rest. I listened from 7:30 until the final show closed at 11:00. That final show was a thirty-minute segment featuring Roy Acuff and the Smokey Mountain Boys. He was famous at the time, and had several big hits to his credit. They billed him as “The King of Country Music.”
I could go on and on about the Opry, but this is a more narrow story. It’s about Roy.
The ad hit the Charleston Gazette: Roy Acuff was coming to town, to the Municipal Auditorium, on a Sunday afternoon, in just three weeks. I whooped. Asked Mom if I could go; told her I had saved enough — well, almost enough, to buy a ticket. She said that wouldn’t work, she didn’t think I should go all the way to Charleston on the bus by myself. I begged. I pleaded. Finally she said OK. (I think she intended all along to go for it; she just wanted to impress on me the importance of taking care of myself.) So, along with the few cents I had, I saved enough for the ticket, with a dime to spare. I think the ticket was either 50 cents or a dollar, don’t remember which.
That Sunday, I dressed in my best green sweater, caught the bus. Bus driver looked at me, a small kid, asked where I was going. Puffed up, I told him “Municipal Auditorium.” I sat right behind him, looking out all the closest windows. He said “Here we are,” I got off in front of this monstrous building with all these people out front, and momentarily froze. Then I got my nerve up, bought a ticket and went inside. A cavern. Dark, huge. I found my way to the top, where there weren’t any people. I moved down two or three rows and got my seat. There was no one even close. I waited and waited, then finally the curtain went up and the show started.
Clark Kessinger
The first act on the show was a fiddle contest. There were two “finalists.” The first was a country guy called Natchez the Indian. Evidently, he was famous and traveled with the show. His competitor was a local man named Clark Kessinger. The crowd roared at his introduction. Someone could write a short story about that fiddle contest. I’ll keep it simple. Natchez went on first. He played an old-time hoe down, and everyone clapped. Then he did his big number: “Listen to The Mocking Bird.” He made his fiddle sing. Pretty bird songs, nice fiddling in between. Up the fingerboard, back down. Tremelo, acrobatic stuff. I was entranced. When he finished he received a huge applause from the crowd.
The Kessinger Brothers, c. 1930
Then Clark Kessinger stepped up. While Natchez had come out in a fancy costume with spangles and a wide hat, Clark stepped up to the microphone in black trousers, white dress shirt, no hat. He proceeded to play his regular fiddle tune, matching Natchez with fast-flying bow work, all over his fiddle. The audience yelled its approval. Then Clark stepped to the mike and said something like this: “Natchez is a fine player. But he played ‘Listen to The Mocking Bird,’ which I had planned as my feature song. So if you all don’t mind, I’ll go ahead and give you my version.”
And he did. He not only played the sweetest, various bird songs, interspersed with a fiddle version of the song, he then put the fiddle behind his neck and continued to play. Then the fiddle went behind his back. The crowd roared. By that time I was transfixed. Finally, he took the bow, placed it between his knees facing forward, and played by moving the fiddle upside down, back and forth. That did it. The crowd rose to their feet, Clark took a portly bow and walked off stage. Of course he was named the winner of the fiddle contest. By that time I was in a trance.
Roy Acuff
And then: then, the show started. Out came Roy Acuff himself (also in dress pants and white dress shirt — none of that cowboy stuff — and the music began. The Smoky Mountain Boys played and sang all the familiar hits that I’d been listening to on the Grand Ole Opry. I can name the songs, the band members, the comedy, all of it. But that’s not important here.
I simply can’t tell you how I felt that day. I suppose “magic” fits. That I can tell you about it now, some seventy years later, may help you see me, young, green sweater, with a dime left over, going to Charleston alone, seeing and hearing all that music, forever tied to that kind of music. As it turned out, not just that kind of music. That was in fact my first “live” music experience. While I loved listening to the radio, the live experience made sense of it all. Music is music, in the end. Roy helped me understand that. Note: It turned out that Clark Kessinger lived in South Charleston. I went to high school with his son and daughter. Clark was locally famous, and in his later years won national championships for senior fiddlers. I have many of his recordings. Look him up.
The Coles. The Coles were a large family who lived close to Sycamore Street. The senior Mr. Cole, whose first name I never knew, had come — from Canada, I think — to work at the “Carbide” chemical plant. He was half-Canadian Indian, half Caucasian, perhaps French. His wife was either full Indian or half French; her speech was heavily accented. They lived in a large, farm-like house on Kanawha Terrace. The children were “Hummy,” the eldest, then Bob, then a sister Patsy, then Bill, Don and Dick. Hummy was killed in WWII action, I think. Bob was 6’8”, a giant at the time and obviously a legend. The younger three were in my age bracket, more or less. Back then, most all boys had an ‘ie’ or ‘y’ at the end of their names. Thus, Hummy, Bobby, Billy, Donnie, and Dickie. The Cole Boys.
As a family, they lived in virtual isolation from other families. However, the boys, Billy, Donnie and Dickie, were involved in all the neighborhood and school stuff. Billy — whom I later knew as just Bill — was quiet, studious, and went on to become a well-known commercial artist with Ringling Brothers. Donnie — Don — went on to become a valued Carbide expert in facilities management. Dickie — Dick — was the youngest, and that’s who this tale is all about.
Dickie was a year or so older than I. We kinda linked up. He was tall, angular, dark-skinned, dark-haired and had an infectious grin. He was kind of a loner, would hang around the neighborhood without ever being anyone’s “best bud.” He had this quiet, stealthy way about him, and my Grandmother Farley, who lived with us, called him — derisively — “that Indian.” He would have grinned at that.
I remember with laughter one summer night when I was upstairs in bed, reading — Zane Grey, probably — when I looked up at the dormer window, and there he was. Dickie, with that grin. I grinned back, and he disappeared, down the roof into a tree and to the ground. I thought “Dickie, why and how did you do that. ” But it was funny. Afterward, it never came up. Done and gone. That was Dickie. We always just grinned at each other; no “best buddy” stuff: sharing innermost thoughts, etc. Dickie and I were an unspoken pair; there was never a need for us to do all that talking stuff.
Here’s the story.
One day, when we were about 11 and 10, we decided, without parental knowledge, to go down to the railroad yard and climb around some cars that were idle on “the side.” The side was about four rails where railroad cars of various us were sent to await future destinies. Mostly, they were coal cars — hoppers — and tank cars, which in our area were mostly used to transport chemical products.
Dickie and I were having fun. Climbing around the wooden walkways on tank cars, climbing up to look down in coal hoppers, etc. As we rounded the front of a tank car it happened. Dickie fell, and his leg caught on a metal abutment. He went to the ground and grunted. Then he said, “I’m hurt.”
Dickie was larger than I. But I went to him and saw blood pouring from his upper leg, which had been torn open, with raw flesh hanging by the skin. He was in great pain, but, being Dickie, was not in panic.
My distinct, never-to-end memory is that at first, I was terrified. I stood there, stunned. The sight of the wound, with all the blood, had me in a state of fear: not knowing what to do or how to do it. His face, now pale with shock, the blood. Then it hit me. He was badly hurt and there was no one but me to help. Somehow, I got him up and, with him leaning on my shoulder, we walked — stumbled — about a hundred yards to the nearest house and onto the porch. He laid down on the porch floor and I pounded on the door, yelling and crying. A woman came to the door and I screamed at her to call an ambulance. She did, and the ambulance arrived. They laid him back and applied what I later learned was a compress and took him to the hospital. The guy who was in charge looked at me and said, “Son, you may have saved this boy’s life.”
I never saw it that way. What I did was get Dickie to help; they did the rest. It didn’t even click with me immediately when he said that. I was just happy that it turned out OK. I went home, told Mom the short version: “It wasn’t a bad thing, mom,” and that was that. Mom, of course, never told Dad.
The event was on my mind constantly the next few days. I was worried about Dickie, and I went to the Cole’s house and knocked on the door. No one came. No surprise; they weren’t very responsive. A couple of days later I went back, knocked on the back door. Mrs. Cole came, small, direct, said “Come.” She led me upstairs to a bedroom where Dickie lay. He grinned, said he had to stay in bed another two or more weeks. We talked for a minute or so, and I left. Mama showed me out. It was only later that I learned that I was perhaps the only person outside the family to ever be allowed in that house. When I learned that, I felt honored. The Coles — the parent Coles — were not an inviting neighbor, but they were extraordinarily good people.
It took about three weeks for the wound to heal enough that Dickie could get around. I saw him as always before: now and then, we’d play mumbly peg with the gang, and all the rest.
Dickie didn’t need to say “Thanks, Farley.” I didn’t need to hear it. We were just two kids, doing what we did, but we had a bond that was different from all the other bonds I’ve known. Dickie Cole. He went on to serve in the Air Force, got a job at Carbide, raised a large family, bought and ran a nice farm. I didn’t see him after high school.
His older brother Don passed away about ten years ago. I heard about the service, and drove to Richmond to attend, with the hope that Dick might be there. He was, and after all that time he hadn’t really changed. We spotted each other at the same time, and there was that infectious smile. And in both our eyes was the fleeting shared memory of that day. We talked for a few moments and then the service began. Driving home I reflected on all of it, and how really good it was to see Dick. About four years ago Dick passed away. Dickie, I’ll never forget that day, and I’ll never forget the night you looked at me through my upstairs window with your silly grin. Funny how hilarious times and serious times are paired in one’s mind.
During my early teen years, the summers were a time of laziness (except for the jobs, which took only part of the day) and being useless. I’d help around the house, which wasn’t a big deal, but for the most part I just engaged in a number of activities, none of which got in the way of doing just nothing. Beginning at about 12, I started to read in earnest. I’d read any novel I could get my hands on — in my house there were, among many standard works, a lot of westerns, mostly Zane Grey. I immediately fell in love with each of Grey’s heroines, and read with great envy of riding horses, drawing down on the bad guys, falling in love, fighting Indians: the standard stuff of western novels of the day.
The real fun was hanging around with my neighbor buddies and finding stuff to do. We played a lot of mumbly peg, or “root the peg.” This was a game played with a two-bladed pocket knife in which one had to flip the knife and get it to stick in the ground. There was a pre-set sequence of hand tosses and finger flips you had to achieve without a miss — about 15 tosses in all. We’d play until only one player was left without finishing the sequence. That player had to “root the peg,” which meant digging a short stick — about three inches long and a quarter inch in diameter — out of the ground with his teeth. The non-losers of the game got to use their knives to drive the peg deeply into the soil, usually about an inch deep, so getting it out with your teeth wasn’t easy. How well I remember being the loser my share of the time. Dirt in my mouth and up my nose while the other players hooted and made fun of me. But if you lost enough you’d get good at digging dirt with your teeth, spitting it out and going back for more until you reached the peg and pulled it out. You can imagine that several games with six or so players could last through half a day.
Actually, the smell and taste of dirt — earth, that is — is okay. If you’ve never tried it, you wouldn’t know. There’s something about the feel, taste, smell of earth that is elemental. Anyway, after rooting the peg I’d go rinse out and take a big drink from the garden hose and go back for more. But you need to understand that I only lost part of the time; in fact, I was better than most. Such was entertainment in those days. No TV, electronic games, computers, skateboards, stuff that today’s kids have for amusement. Just knives, slingshots, apple trees, wrestling, going to Joplin Hollow, and the rest.
We would roam the neighborhood, climbing trees in the local apple orchard when the apples were not quite ripe, running foot races, sometimes playing touch football . . . you get it: we did a lot of nothing and that was huge fun. But the real deal — I mean The Real Deal — was sleeping out on someone’s front porch on a warm night, laughing with your buddies. Most often, it was my front porch. Four or five of us, sometimes more, would get parental permission to “sleep out.” Everyone would bring a quilt or blanket from home sometime shortly after it was too dark to continue our game of Capture the Flag, we’d pile in side by side, think up games to play and ornery stuff to say, until we’d fall off to sleep with an adventure yet to be had: going to the railroad. At about 3:30, we’d get up and quietly, with the sultry night laden with airborne reminders that we lived in the “chemical city,” walk about a mile to a low cliff that overlooked the C&O Railroad at the South Charleston freight yard. From there we would watch the trains below, chuffing back and forth, until the time — I think it was 5:20 — that the famous Fast Flying Virginian passenger train came roaring through, going westbound toward Cincinnati. Oh Boy. That train was like a rocket. Big engine with thirteen or fifteen streamlined passenger cars, each emblazoned with the words “Fast Flying Virginian.” And each car with its own special name. Easy to understand: it was a thrill to imagine oneself riding on that train to some distant city. On some nights, we would wait a little longer and watch the George Washington flyer going eastbound. Then we’d sneak back to the porch and sleep till someone woke us — often my Dad coming home off of midnight shift. And he always frowned. Imagine that! After his summers as a kid on the Greenbrier river? C’mon.
We never really tired of that adventure — sleeping out, capped off by the magic of the railroad and the steam locomotives — stinky, noisy, powerful, fast, mysterious, as they pulled their streamlined passenger cars through the night to exotic destinations.
Actually, the sleeping out wasn’t so much about sleeping out as about the railroad and the trains that provided us with dreams and excitement. But just sleeping out was good in itself, and we didn’t always go to the railroad. Railroad or no, it was a great way to spend a summer night, totally oblivious to all but the immediacy of the moment itself: young boys being just that.
When we became 15 or so, believing ourselves wholly adult and mature, we were disdainful of such juvenile stuff as sleeping out and watching nighttime trains. New fish to fry. Too bad, that; I’d do it tonight if my body would permit and I had a boyhood companion. And if there were still steam locomotives. It was just that good. I’ve slept out time and again — and yet again, since those days, beside whispering streams and roaring rivers, in warm weather and cold. And often at night, lying on the ground or cot, I’d think about those warm nights on someone’s neighborhood front porch, and smile.
