Discovering My New Horizons
by Elaine K. Miller
As I drew closer to retirement several years ago, I was a bit uneasy about a couple of things. Dealing with losing that genteel and compatible academic community that had enveloped me, womb-like, for more than 30 years was one of them. Another was coming face to face with the loss of those captive classroom audiences that had hung on my every word—well, maybe not always.
These were daunting considerations. But I hoped for the best and made a plan to do three very specific things—one for my body, one for my mind, and one for my “soul,” as I ended up calling it. The last was the greatest, and most intriguing, challenge—my personal “new horizon.”
How lucky for me, just when I needed it, that I found the Rochester, New York New Horizons Band.
My musical career began with the wood block, as a third-grader at John Greenleaf Whittier School in Teaneck, New Jersey. I had good rhythm, and I loved it. In the fifth grade I was steered to the violin, a perfectly fine instrument, but I secretly dreamed of trumpets and drums. I had never voiced my fascination with those extroverted brasses and percussions. I somehow knew, or thought I knew, not to do that. Yes, the violin is a beautiful instrument and perfectly fine, and I even enjoyed playing in our fifth grade orchestra. But I secretly dreamed of trumpets and drums.
Thinking about my choice of instrument made me recall a Rochester Philharmonic Orchestra concert a number of years ago. Bagpiper Nancy Tunnicliffe did a wonderfully dramatic performance of the program’s centerpiece “Orkney Wedding with Sunrise.”
She startled the audience with the first droning note at the back of the theater, then processed slowly, piping down the long aisle past rows and rows of seats, to join the orchestra on stage. In the pre-concert “Conversation with the Artist” that evening, the bagpiper had been asked: How did you choose the bagpipe?”
She told us of how her fourth grade class was sent home with the instruction to listen carefully to the record “The Sounds of the Orchestra” and to choose the instrument they wanted to learn to play in the fifth grade. She told of how she immersed herself in the music and became entranced with the sound of the trombone, which she called “liquid sunlight.” And how, when she announced her choice, she was steered elsewhere—girls did not play trombones.
Then, many years later, in reaction to this early betrayal, and having the freedom to make the choice, she sought out, as she described it, “the instrument with the most protuberances possible.” After these final words of her tale, there was a brief inaudible holding of breath, and then an outburst of laughter. The audience loved the cheekiness of the story.
The Rochester New Horizons Band is part of the Eastman Community Music School. Founded in 1991 by Roy Ernst, and focused on people older than 50, there are now more than 100 such groups nationwide. In Rochester, the bands are divided into different levels, according to skill—the Green Band, the Concert Band, and the Symphonic Band, and the members form a variety of ensembles that perform individually in a variety of settings. Band camps are held throughout the country, and the groups do regular concerts at retirement villages, nursing homes, and other community agencies.
I joined the band as a snare drummer, with zero experience. In the very first session I attended, anxious to avoid making a loud mistake, I had slapped the heavy rubber practice pad onto the drum face, but the director spotted that, strolled back to the percussion section, and removed it. (I reflected, with an uneasy inner smile on now being on the receiving end of the teacher’s correction.) A bit unnerved at discovering I could not hide, I nevertheless felt a mix of surprising elation at how easy it was, and dismay at how long it had taken me, to dare to ignore the dictates of the system of “gendered instruments”—to dare to act on this dream of drumming.
A quick perusal of the members of my New Horizons group—the “Green Band” (a metaphorically apt name for beginners)—and their instruments told me that several other women had ignored those dictates, too. Or perhaps had never registered them. We are roughly the same age group, so why would that be?
Sociological zeal impelled me to probe further. The most integrated section was the clarinets—not surprisingly, given the clarinet’s middle-of-the-road character—the most androgynous of the group. Does the clarinet mark the boundaries, instrumentally speaking, of how big women can think and how small men can think without psychic discomfort?
A large group of men—the largest numerically—had colonized the saxophone section, with just two women among the nine players, and one lone man sat among the seven flute players. I chatted one morning with one of the women on flute, who told me that the percentage of men in that section increases along with the skill level represented by the band. “The Symphonic Band,” she observed, “has a lot.” Of course, I think of Jean Pierre Rampal, James Galway, and Zamfir.
I file this in my mental archive of gender observations.
I love to look at the instruments that my companions bring to the band—some for their shiny new-ness, others because they have acquired the character that comes from loving use over long periods of time. Especially the tubas, whose dings and dents win my affection and make me smile. I have an old wooden snare drum inherited from a neighbor who moved away some time ago. The drum stands out amid the shiny metallic showiness of the instruments played by my fellow percussionists. I remember my older sister’s advice concerning any performance activity: “never let your outfit or your equipment exceed your skill level.” This drum is right for me.
While each group of instruments has its predictable character, the band members’ creativity shows up in the devices they have invented to transport them. The unpacking and repacking scenes add an endearing dimension to the gathering, as we fit our instruments into a whimsical assortment of satchels and bags, suitcases on wheels, and “retrofitted” shopping carts.
We settle in to play, and we are wonderful. We navigate the piece almost as smoothly as a synchronized swim team, keeping our mistakes below the surface. If we momentarily lose the beat, we miraculously meet up again just a few measures later. We approximate correct crescendo and diminuendo, we move among 4/4, 3/4, and cut-time with only a minor musical hiccup, and we arrive together, joyously, at the final note. A moment of silence at the end, and then we laugh.
We move to the next piece, and we are awful. We lurch through it like a car stuck in first gear, entire sections, even individuals within the sections, growing measures apart from each other, never to reconvene. Squeaks and squawks, blats and bleeps sprinkled throughout; lone errant notes floating in the air; an exuberant drummer’s rat-a-tat-tat hanging solitarily off the end, then halting sheepishly on a muted tap.
Sometimes, in our fervent attention to the notes on the page, we miss the cut off of the fermata. “What does ‘fermata’ mean in English?” the conductor chastises us with mock indignation. “It means ‘Watch me!’”
I marvel in every session at the sense of humor of the directors, and I try to mentally record, amid the outbursts of laughter from the group, their most memorable comments.
“That was the best concert B-flat I’ve ever heard from you! Who wasn’t playing?”
“Percussionists, please try to sound like just one instrument.”
“I LOVE that rhythm, I really love it … but it’s not on the page.”
“Did we all arrive together? Great!”
“When I say we’ll play it through, I almost never stop—only for train wrecks. That was a train wreck.”
I reflect repeatedly on the gift this organization is to the community and the labor of love offered up so generously by the directors and the tutors. Their talent is remarkable, their patience is limitless, and their sense of humor is, happily, very expansive.
Garrison Keillor, in his satiric piece “The Young Lutheran’s Guide to the Orchestra,” observes in his sardonic way that “To each person God gives some talent, such as writing, just to name one, and to many persons He has given musical talent, though not as many as think so.”
Perhaps. But I am glad that the members of the New Horizons Green Band do not linger on this question. With earnest dedication, youthful exuberance, and the delight of new things learned, we play on.
