Legacy

Mom called. "Lori, that concert at The Bass Hall? The one I've been telling you about is on July 9th. Would you like to go with us? I know how you love choir concerts." A quick scan of my limited schedule and I quickly said, "Sure, I'd love to go." I had no idea what I was in store for me, certainly not what I'd anticipated.

I speak with Mom several times a week and I hear details of her life and her friends' lives on a regular basis. The choir story of Joyce's son Carlton did pique my interest primarily because it resonated with some of my own experience with reuniting last summer with my high school choir. Still...how good could a choir be from Wichita Falls? Especially with old folks like Carlton? (who, to be fair, is just a few years older than me.) I can't really tell you how big Wichita Falls is. I just know that it's been wiped out several times by terrible tornadoes. It's probably not much bigger than Highland Village, and I'm pretty sure Tommy Tune escaped from that town to make his mark on Broadway. I also know that Michelle Davis got a lifetime Sonic sticker on her car for lifetime 1/2 price drinks from Wichita Falls. THAT is impressive. 

We agreed to meet in Fort Worth for dinner before the show. I had just spoken with Dad on the cell phone they now keep on during waking hours. I was walking from the parking garage and saw them a block ahead of me. 

No. 

They're too old. My parents are younger. Wait. 

Yes. 

It had to be them. 

And yet, it looked like Granddaddy and Memo, silver hair without a hint of the colors of youth. There was Dad, always the gentleman, street side walking slowly beside Mom. Even three years after her fall(s), she walks with a limp, particularly in the evenings after a full day of standing and moving around. 

When did they get old? 

I realized in that moment that regardless of how bad this concert was, the real value of the evening was time shared with aging parents whom I cherish. (Can I say that I finally consider that my Memo is old at 97? Mom and Dad are only in their 70's.)

I was reminded of the event title only when handed a most impressive all color 8 1/2 x 11 multi-page program: Legacy. Impressive.

As the night unfolded I learned something about legacy. Much more, I was drawn into the power of human connectedness, the power of shared lives, dreams, goals, and music.

I read parts of my program. Legacy Choir of Rider High School in Wichita Falls, Texas consisted of around 200 adults ages 34-60. Together with their beloved director, whom they still referred to as Mr. Cowan, these people gathered once a month for 15 months to learn and rehearse music. There was even a group that met on the East coast monthly to practice. Impressive.

The choir entered Bass Hall from the rear and filled the gaps in the auditorium aisles. Matching tuxes. Matching dresses. Black. (No blue tuxes or giant blue velvet bow ties. Improvement noted.) They all dropped some coinage. Impressive.

The line of men standing in front of me were all holding hands before they began singing. Hmmmm....Texas? Carlton? Former goat roper, now airline executive, holds hands with his peers? Because of Texas, I was impressed. 

I was shocked and delighted when I heard their first few notes soar throughout that magnificent hall. I could hear individual voices because of proximity during that first song. I took note that, like my choir, there were a few "stars". For the most part, they were just people with average voices that when trained well have the ability together to transcend their individual talent.It was a choir, not individual voices. Impressive.

In various ways we learned about their director. A choir director who insisted that everyone in that room was an equal? Who referred to the choir as a family in High School? One who would require members to hold hands during concerts? The WHOLE concert? Impressive. That the kids complied? Very impressive.

I was so glad to be a part of the multiple ovations. Most of all I was honored to stand witness to legacy. I was delighted to honor a man who believed that making music is more than just singing or playing correct notes. Stetsons off to a man who dared in the 60's and 70's in Texas to make boys hold hands?! He is but one of many directors in Texas who carved out a place, a room  where creativity, music, and acceptance were safe havens for so many who might otherwise have lost their way during adolescent years. Choir rooms or band halls were places where even those of us who may have appeared confident on the outside felt better, at home.

I knew, without prompting from the director, that what happened for this Legacy choir was extraordinary. When these adults sang lyrics they memorized long ago-- life and experience, pain and mortgages, children and loss all contributed to their sense of knowing. The collective support and love felt both now and then combined with music, talent, and hard work was visceral to those of us who were merely spectators.

I plan on purchasing the CD once it's available. I will also keep watch for the documentary that someone is producing as well. Will I listen to it and marvel at the professional quality? Probably not. What I will listen for and remember is what it means to be a legacy. Will anyone in Minnesota, or Washington, or even Kenya ever know or care about Mr. Cowan or Carlton or Lori? It's doubtful, most improbable. However, does it matter that Mr. Cowan spent endless hours teaching, researching music, listening to the endless, weekly love stories gone badly, year after year after year? Does it matter that Carlton, a goat-ropin' cowboy wanted to sing and learn more? Did it matter that Anne Goetsch said, "Of course you're going to be the accompanist!"?  I know it matters. The hundreds of people in Bass Hall that night resoundingly said, with thunderous applause, it matters. 

Mr. Cowan has his thousands who have experienced his legacy of life and love of music. Carlton made the trip from DC every month for rehearsal. I met his college aged son, an award winning filmmaker already. The arts are part of his legacy as well. Me? I was aware of the legacy of my parents--the legacy of sacrifice for family. Dad driving half way across Houston everyday, so I could continue to attend KHS. They were willing to pay for voice lessons and piano lessons, so that I could do what I enjoyed. Was I ever going to be a diva on stage or a broadway star? Nope. Not even close. They hear me now singing along with the radio, or while I set the table for Thanksgiving dinner. They cried along with me as I tried but couldn't finish singing at Dado's funeral. They contributed profoundly to my passion for music and beauty. Their support then and now matters immensely. 

Do the arts matter in school today? Anyone at Bass Hall on July 9, 2011 would shout out, "YES!" What else would motivate such commitment from busy-addicted people to slow down enough to perform a concert once? They remembered and experienced again that being accepted matters. They experienced that learning to be family did matter and is a transferable skill. They remembered what it's like to work together to make one chord, one phrase, even better. Perfect. They had the chance to say the things they wished they'd said to the director that never even crossed the mind of a self-absorbed teenager. Life was hard then. It's hard now. The performers and their audience experienced beautiful music. Music transports us to places where life is better, if even for a moment. Always has. Always will.