reading between the bars

"Miss Dix taught me a love for poetry in the sixth grade. I have stayed in touch with her ever since. She is now 102 years old."

I often hear or read a variation on that theme. A mentor who turned someone's life around and has been a boon buddy for life.

The latest was in this week's edition of The Economist. Melvyn Bragg is the host of a weekly conversation program ("In Our Time") on BBC Radio 4. The show's format is rigid. Interviews with three academics.

But the topics are eclectic. High culture. Science. Mathematics. It is an interesting program that strives to find cultural unity in what Matthew Arnold called "the best that has been thought and known in the world."

Reading that sentence, you have probably concluded Bragg is the product of some manor house. He isn't. He is a working class boy who made good.

He believes he made good because of education. The reason he went on to university is because his history teacher convinced his parents that he should stay in school rather than leave to get get a job.

Then, the inevitable sentence appeared. He "keeps a house in the town where he grew up, where he regularly sees his old history teacher, now 97."

With the exception that I am not British and I do not have a long-running radio program, that could be my story. I had several teachers who inspired me over the years and gave me confidence that were my dreams were not a bunch of rubbish.

Mrs. Metz, my high school English teacher. Miss Riddle, speech. Mr. Adamson, band. Mr. Jackson, social studies. Mr. Herauf, creative writing.

But, once I left their tutorial clutches, I did not keep in touch. I guess you might call them temporal mentors.

Last week, I was talking with an artist acquaintance about our respective tastes in art. Even though I have long collected paintings and sculpture, I told her I did not agree with Winston Churchill's assessment that "painting is the highest form of art." For my taste, it is music.

She had read my essays on the San Miguel de Allende Chamber Music Festival and commented that I seemed to have been excited about discovering videos on Youtube that not only showcased highly-talented chamber music performers, but also displayed the scores (turning up the thermostat).

She was correct. When I found the videos, I felt as if a portion of my music-listening ability had been restored. As if my listening myopia had been corrected -- to completely mangle sensory metaphors.

She grimaced. "I hate to admit this, but I have no idea how to read a score."

That surprised me coming from someone who has spent her life refining her production of visual arts. For me, reading scores helps me to hear the subtle variations the composer intended. Not only do I hear when Beethoven begins in the tonic and moves down a third; I see it.

She just shook her head. "No one ever taught me how to read music."

Last month, we talked about the importance of reading and how that skill is not readily apparent in our villages by the sea (taking AMLO to school). I have always considered reading music to be part of the reading process.

But my acquaintance had a point. If you have never been taught to read music, it can be as foreign as looking at a Maya hieroglyphic.

And this is where we get back to mentors.

I was surrounded by music growing up. My grandmother was the church pianist. My mother played the accordion. We sang at family gatherings from carol sheets complete with sheet music. We sang from hymnals in church with the four-part harmony staring us in the face.

I cannot say when those notes started making sense to me. I may have learned to read music before I started violin lessons in the fourth grade. But I do know that was the first time I produced music from an instrument while looking at those scriggles on the parallel staffs.

But that was one-on-one. The next year all of my classmates were required to buy tonettes. A plastic instrument vaguely resembling a recorder.

The tonette was our student introduction to reading music and making sounds with them that had a passing resemblance to melody and harmony.

The next year, the same music teacher introduced us to more complex concepts. He passed out copies of the score to Grieg's Peer Gynt Suite No. 1, and then asked us to follow along while a scratchy vinyl performance played on the music room's record player. The second time through, he asked us to set aside the scores and write an essay about the music.

When I related that story to my artist acquaintance, she was amazed that a public school would have such an intensive music program. To me, it was just part of my education.

She is about my same age, so I assumed we would have similar elementary education backgrounds. But she was schooled in Canada. She had not heard of tonettes or reading music in any elementary school near her.

That is too bad. I feel the same way about reading music as I do about reading biographies. It opens an entirely new world to me.

You may notice that I have not referred to the name of the man who completely changed the way I listen to and analyze music. There is a good reason. I cannot remember it.

I remember the name of my saxophone teacher., That is because he was also my seventh-grade teacher. Mr. Vaught. But the name of the man who started it all, is a mystery to me.

You will not be surprised to hear that I do not visit him in his home or send him hand-written notes.

But I do not feel that bad about this particular lapse of my memory. I may not recall his name, but I know what he did to give more depth to my life.

Each time I read a musical score, he is right there with me.

And that is sufficient for me, as Matthew Arnold puts it, to live in an "atmosphere of sweetness and light."


Note -- Such a mentor cannot go unnamed. A school friend filled in the gap in my memory. It was Mr. Knauss who initiated me into the mysteries of music.