Lessons

Some readers are sure to remember David C. McGuire, debonair band instructor at Brighton High School until my junior year there.

He was a deeply admired, well-loved teacher. He was a handsome young black-haired father, a devout Christian man, an accomplished musician.

In the mid-50s, McGuire drove a gorgeous black ‘49 or ‘50 Mercury, a two-door sedan powered by a flathead V-8. The car was the envy of all boys, bar none.

He had lots of things right, and had earned the admiration he received. He taught me several object lessons that I recall to this day.

One of those lessons was the benefit of practice, of practicing a craft or even a vocation.

As a sort of extracurricular music department activity, McGuire had established several musical “combo” groups and scheduled performances at schools and churches.

McGuire distributed sheet music, told his students what the performance schedule would be, and left the rest up to us. “Go practice,” he said.

As you may already have guessed, we didn’t bother. The several star musicians in the combo apparently thought so highly of our own musical abilities that we believed it unnecessary.

McGuire was in the audience the night of our first performance in concert at the Methodist Church.

We were horrid. Worse than horrid. McGuire sat through it, looking between his knees at the floor, head in hands.

It had been arranged that McGuire would drive us home after the concert. We closed our instruments in their cases, took them to the trunk of his shiny black car, and got in the passenger seats.

No one said a word. Not until the car arrived at the first student’s home did McGuire speak.

“You have embarrassed me. Your combo is disbanded. I hope you will tell your parents what you have done – so I won’t have to.” That’s all he said.

The silence was deafening during the rest of that ride home. Our teacher didn’t curse, didn’t yell, didn’t threaten, didn’t reprimand.

McGuire never mentioned it again. In fact, I am positive he forgave me. That summer, he took a new job in Beloit, Wisconsin, and I accompanied him as relief truck driver when he moved his family’s household there.

The trip in the U-Haul truck is among my fondest youthful memories. What an awesome responsibility I had, driving that vehicle, watching my former teacher, comfortable enough with me that he slept while I drove.

In 1987, the McGuires visited me and Laura in our Salinas, California, home. That he cared enough to visit former students is testament to his character.

Practice makes perfect. Success requires more than prayer; it requires practice.

Thanks, David.

Problem woman

In the late ‘60s and early ‘70s, Cecil Sandberg made daily visits to the newspaper office where I worked in Blackfoot, Idaho. Sandberg was a mortician; he visited frequently to bring copies of obituaries to be printed in the paper.

Sometimes, you see someone often enough and you become friends despite huge cultural and age differences.

So it was with me and Cecil Sandberg. He was far and away my best friend among the established leaders of the era.

Sandberg was an Idaho state senator, elected through the Democratic Party. This was quirky in itself, because Sandberg was a Mormon, and almost all Mormons would align themselves with the Republicans.

The senator’s wife, Grace, had established herself as a skilled studio photographer, producing excellent photos of babies, weddings and high school graduations. Her studio was in the Sandberg home near downtown.

Making conversation, I asked Sandberg one day how it was that Grace had become a photographer. It was unusual in that time for a woman, especially a Mormon woman, to pursue a career other than being a mother. Grace and Cecil stood out in that way, liberal you know.

Sandberg answered that it had been with his encouragement that his wife began taking photos professionally. She had been a photographer for almost all of their married life.

Pensive, my friend Cecil became quiet, gazing out the front window of the newspaper office with a faraway look in his eye. I might have even seen a tear or two.

“If I hadn’t encouraged her in photography, she surely would have become a problem woman,” he said.

This was followed by a pregnant silence. Then Sandberg looked at me and said, “Yep. A problem woman.”

With that, he strolled out the door and I heard him say, as the door swung shut, “Yep. Problem woman.”

Thanks, Cecil.

One idea

I’ve been pondering the idea of temporarily discontinuing the “Friday Letter.” My rationale is that I would use the time to pursue another writing interest.

Since I’ve become so keenly disciplined, (Note sarcasm – ed.) I tell myself, I would use the time to work on a story I wrote in the 1980’s.

It’s true, I have learned to devote a certain specific time period each week to write the Letter. This small discipline actually makes me more efficient, hence the return of ambition to finish the old story.

What I wrote (the typewritten manuscript is in a box in the office) is the story of a trip I took with a friend to Tijuana. It is titled “The Green Papers.” It deserves publication, but that can’t happen until I put the rough draft into edited, computer-stored form.

I do spend five to eight hours weekly on the Letter. There is a tremendous return from that effort as far as intercourse with family and friends.

However, I only draw 30 to 35 “hits” for each letter. I’m just vain enough to have hoped for a wider impact, publication, even.

Once again, technology has passed me by. What with “Twitter” and “Squeaker” and “Tweaker” out there, old-fashioned e-mail is passé. I had hoped the Letter would amount to more than idle chatter anyway.

I have all these oil paintings lying around in storage and I have no idea how to promote their framing and sale.

I have all these writings in archives and I have no idea how to promote their publication and sale.

Perhaps a good place to start would be the completion of “The Green Papers.”

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Word of the Week: Circum. It’s from the Latin, meaning “around” or “about.”

From that simple root word we can instantly know the meanings of many English words. Circumcision. Circumstances. Circumfusion. Circumlocution. Even “circus.”

My personal favorite is “circumnavigation.” Way to go, Ferdinand!