"T"

Some things never change. Over time and geography, in every high school certain well-defined cliques and stereotypes endure. One stereotype is the "band geek." He' shy and insecure. He's not very athletic; doesn't have too many friends; doesn't have the hot girlfriend. And lets face it - sometimes he's just downright weird. The band geek is a lost, lonely soul - especially in a small town like Altavista.

Enter Mr. Temples.

I remember the first piece of music he handed us. We were still working on the B-flat scale - some of us had mastered it, and others hadn't. And we'd never played anything together as a band. It was called "Lone Star Ranger." It was a boring piece, designed for a beginner band. As I would come to find out, often we trombones have the most boring part - like, 24 whole notes in a row, all of them middle-F. Okay, so this one wasn't quite that boring, and we were new, so it took us a couple of weeks to get down the mechanics. Then one day T came in with a tape. He said, "Now I want you to put your horns down, close your eyes ... and listen to the story the music is telling." He put it so simply. But it had such an impact.

"That's silly," I thought. "What story? There aren't any words." But I gave it a good faith effort. I got as far as "well ... its kind of fast-paced, so I guess the ranger is probably on a horse." Beyond that, I couldn't elaborate much more. At the end of the exercise, we wrote down our stories and turned them in. Then, T told us his story. Of course, he painted an elaborate, evocative, passionate picture. I left class rather frustrated. "That's not fair. How was I supposed to know that that was the story."

But then, T was always the best conversationalist. It didn't matter what he was talking about, or if we'd heard the story 100 times beore - we were eager to hear him tell it again. Who else could make Altavista so interesting and exciting? We heard about his senior prom, his trips to DCI competitions with Jenny, or to New York with the band boosters, or the time they won Band of the Day, and one student jumped off of the top of the bleachers to hug him.

One day in the sixth grade, he came in and told us about marching band. He was so animated and excited. He told us how much work it was, how much time it took, that it wasn't for the faint of heart, but that it could be very rewarding. This prompted me to start going to the football games again, where I saw this little band with a sound - and an attitude - the size of Texas. I was floored. I had never wanted to be a part of something so badly. And before long I was.

On the first day of band camp, I was on time. I got yelled at: "Early is on time and on time is late!" We did these extremely boring exercises in the hot August sun, marching up and down the drill field, getting yelled at from 20 different people the whole time. "Roll your feet! Get in step! Put your head up! Stop talking! Put your head up! PUT YOUR HEAD UP!!!" T used to say that even if you fell on your face in the middle of a performance, you should get back up with your head so high, that everyone would think that's what you were supposed to do. At the end of each practice, we were called to attention. "Band! Ten hut!" "WITH PRIDE!" That was our mantra. And we were so proud. Yes, us - the band geeks. We had worked so incredibly hard. We had poured our sweat and emotion into the show, doing drill exercises, breathing exercises, run-throughs, marching from one block to another ad nauseum. practicing at home, section practices, music practice, a hundred fundraisers, helping paint the sets, and on and on - all orchestrated by T. And it was coming together. Yes, we were extremely proud. We were proud of ourselves, and we were proud to be a part of something so special. To turn heads in every competition, where we marched everywhere with our heads high. We were proud, because T was proud of us. And we always wanted to make T proud.

How can one person inspire so many? How can a single person, with hard work and force of personality, shape literally thousands of lives? Maybe, on some level deep down, we knew that he was bigger than one picture, bigger than the show, bigger than music, bigger than life. The thing about life lessons is that you almost never realize you're learning them at the time. T wasn't just telling us how to get through the ups and downs of a performance - he was showing us how to get through the ups and downs of life. With dignity, energy, always giving 200%, perfect practice and work, and with pride - pride in your work, even when it was 24 boring whole notes; pride in your accomplishments, as an individual and a group; pride in your friends and family; and pride in who you are - whether you're the band geek or the star quarterback.

But the most valuable lesson was the first one. I think back on how frustrated I was with the exercise - with "listening to the story." Of course, now I know there is no right answer to Lone Star Ranger. T wasn't asking us to find one objective story. We were supposed to tell the story.

He was giving us a voice.

And now he's not here to tell us his stories - before school, after school, on the bus, or in his impeccably decorated home. The ones we never got tired of hearing. But we long ago commited hundreds of his stories to our hearts. And now, we have a voice. What a wonderful gift he gave us. Altavista has lost a legend, and I've lost my hero, a mentor, and one of the best friends I ever had. But if its true that people live on in the people they impact, then T's doing just fine. Because now I remember that all I ever wanted to do with my life is somehow, in some way, pass it on. And I know I'm not the only one who feels that way.

Thank you T.

Fear And Loathing In Vermont

They looked like caricatures of the sons and daughters of bureaucrats from northern Virginia. Sitting there, planning their conference, filled with idealistic prattle about progressive causes. And Jesus God there were a lot of them in bumfuck Vermont in an existentially depressing era ... You see, America in the late 90s was a very special time and place to be a part of. There was apathy in every direction. Anyone could douse a flame anywhere with a steady regiment of ignorance and boredom. And, with the rise of profits and temporary autonomy in the internet, there was the sense that we didn't need each other anymore. Now, less than five years later, you can stand on a mountaintop in Vermont and look southward. And with the right kind of eyes, you can almost see the mushroom cloud rising from Washington D.C. But, no sympathy for the devil. Buy the ticket, take the ride.