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I feel like I was caught between centuries. Those who were my teachers in the 1950's were themselves influenced by educators from the mid nineteenth century. Here I was in 5th grade leaning how to take cover under my desk in the event of a nuclear attack, while my teacher was born before the advent of the automobile. Events were turning over so rapidly. Change was riding a tsunami of technology that would forever change the landscape of civilization. I never quite got on board. I preferred my Grandfather's approach. While Rome was burning and decent men like Martin Luther King Jr and the Kennedy's were being killed by the militant arm of the Oligarchy, he would take me out to the countryside to sit for a spell, listen to the American Songbook, and lazily throw stones into a meandering stream. I came to appreciate the natural world around me and decided someday I too would create music. The drone like buzzing of worker bees, the gentle whirring, flapping of a hummingbird's tiny wings, the squawk of the blue jays, the wind whispering through the trees; I heard music everywhere away from city strife. Last Summer I brought my student Yamaha 6 string (I love the antique sound), a couple of old Horner harmonicas, a little bread, a little wine, and a corner of cheese, up to the forest and cliffs of Mount Tom State Reservation in Western Massachusetts. Here at the 1200' level I could simultaneously view majestic hawks and eagles soaring far above sun drenched clouds, yet still see the vulgar buildings of Springfield and Hartford deep in the grey distance. At this time I was intent upon listening to life's Many Voices.

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