Chronicles of Small Beer

BEETHOVEN, WALTER DAMROSCH,AND MISS JESSIE LEE

Everyone knows that Beethoven was one of the greatestcomposers in the classical music scene. Walter Damroschwas conductor of the New York Philharmonic Orchestra inthe late 1930s. Miss Jessie Lee Fleming was the principaland sixth grade teacher at the Terry-Norman grade schoolwhere I began my formal education. What they had in com-mon was a love for really good music.

In the part of the country where I grew up, country musicwas so dominant that local radio stations drew protests whenthey played any other kind. Stars of the Grand Ole Oprywere bigger-than-life heroes and made lots more money thanBeethoven or Damrosch ever did. Somewhere in her earlieryears, MissJessLee, as everyone called her, had learned ofother dimensions of music and thought that her pupils shouldat least be exposed to the great masters, other than RoyAcuff and Ernest Tubb.

So MissJessLee persuaded the Parent Teacher Associationto buy a record player and albums of her favorites. Frommemory, Beethoven was her first choice. She liked Mozartand Bach and John Philip Sousa. She also liked opera.

Besides leading the Philharmonic, Walter Damrosch con-ducted a weekly radio program directed at helping childrenunderstand classical music and the structure of a symphony.At the time of his weekly broadcast, we runny-nosed urchinswere packed into the sixth grade classroom to listen to UncleWalter and then hear some of MissJessLee’s music.He would have his orchestra play a brief segment. Then hewould let the first violins play the melody. He would add theseconds, the violas, the cellos, and finally the basses. Ilearned what a bassoon sounded like, even if I never hadseen one. Somewhere along the way, we figured out thatthere were no guitars in a symphony. If we were reasonablywell behaved, she would play Sousa and we could marcharound the room before going back to our lessons.

In those years, the Metropolitan Opera sent touring com-panies out into the hinterlands. Once a year, they came toMemphis, Tennessee. MissJessLee and a dozen other adultsfrom our town would get tickets and spend a weekend wal-lowing in two or three operas. She would always buy therecords and play parts of them for us when she came back.She would tell us the story of the opera and then we wouldlisten to the good parts. She knew better than to try to in-volve the Ring Cycle or other ponderous Teutonic mara-thons. Her favorites, and thus mine, were Carmen and Aida.She also had La Boheme and several albums of mixed

pieces. Even at the age of 10, it was difficult to not get

caught up in the richness of Bizet’s music in Carmen.MissJessLee was vague on just how Carmen, the cigarettegirl, actually made her living. But what did we care. FromAida was the wonderful processional, to which we latermarched at graduations. Being buried alive was a grizzly endfor the hero and heroine. But again, it was the music and notthe plot.

Lest I am accused of becoming a musical snob at the ageof 10, I note that those were the years of swing, of jazz, ofDixieland. All these genres required good musicians, as didthe classics. This predates Elvis Presley, the Beatles, and therock era. My son insists that there are good musiciansamong the rock stars. I answer that with the beat overdrivingthe tune and the volume up high, it is hard to tell. Perhapssomewhere there is a rock musician who explains that theBeatles were influenced by Mozart and shows how. WithoutMissJessLee, I have missed it, if it exists.

As a grade schooler, my son took up the violin and madeit into the county youth orchestra. So we heard him rehears-ing Vivaldi or the Bach double. His sister, the aspiring balle-rina, liked Tchaikovsky and Stravinsky. That was the kind ofmusic they heard me playing and they seemed to like it.

We still have symphony tickets and make it to severalconcerts each season. I am less keen on vocal music andtrade away from oratorios and cantatas. Operas are so expen-sive that we abandoned them some years ago.

My favorite version of Aida was a summer presentationat the Baths of Caracala in Rome on a hot night 40 yearsago. When the processional started, out came animals fromthe zoo. Elephants, camels, llamas, and even ostriches. Theywere followed by the soldiers in the chorus waving theirbanners, singing lustily, and trying to watch what they werestepping into.

Probably that is the wrong thing to remember about anopera. But now that I have told you, try listening to the Aidaprocessional without thinking of the animals.

I thank MissJessLee, also Walter Damrosch and Ludvigvon Beethoven. They enriched my life.

Otha Linton, MSJPotomac, MD

UNCLE’CAR

“Your cousin Thomas called while you were out,” my wifesaid. “He told me to tell you to make your sister give himUncle’s car.”

“What’s all that about?”

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CHRONICLES OF SMALL BEER Academic Radiology, Vol 13, No 7, July 2006

“Thomas didn’t say. I didn’t remember that you had acousin Thomas.”

I called my sister.“It’s a big mess,” she answered. “Uncle died yesterday.

I’m his executrix and I cannot give anybody anything untilhis estate is probated. Thomas claimed that Uncle had prom-ised him the car and he wants it right now. He’s alreadymad at me.”

“Give me the whole story,”“As I just said, Uncle died yesterday. Three hours before

he died, he got remarried. After the reception, they drovehome to his apartment. He put the key in the lock, openedthe door, and fell dead across the threshold. His new wifewas legally as much his widow after 3 hours as she wouldhave been after 30 years. Uncle could not change his willuntil he got married. The widow has dower rights and I haveto unsnarl this mess.”

To complicate her problems, Thomas was the town lock-smith. If she had not hidden the car, he would have un-locked it and taken possession.

“What do you want me to do about Thomas?” I asked.“Tell him to commit an unnatural act,” I paraphrase. “He

thinks you are smart. Just maybe, he will listen to you if youexplain why I have to play by the rules.”

So I called. “Uncle promised me that car when he died,long before he decided to remarry,” Thomas said. “He meantfor me to have it. Nobody ever gave me a present like thatbefore and I won’t let your sister cheat me out of it. I quitspeaking to her. So you tell her I will have that car, regard-less of what she says.” I reported my failure.

At the time of his death, Uncle was 79. He had been wid-owed for about 12 years. He retired, moved back to hishometown, and took up drinking coffee with old friends andhanging out with relatives. A couple of years earlier, he be-gan seeing a widow who had worked in his office. Theyboth were lonesome and she accepted his proposal. In antici-pation of the marriage, she sold her house, sold her furniture,and was camping with her daughter.

Now she was a widow again, minus her whole pattern of

living, cast back on her daughter, and somehow at the mercy

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of a family who hardly knew her. My sister explained to herthat she was entitled to some of his estate. But because therehad not been time to change his will, it would take somefancy footwork to straighten things out.

The two main lawyers in town got into the act. One wasUncle’s lawyer and was helping my sister untangle the mess.The other was our family lawyer. The widow’s daughter re-tained him to look after her interests. In a small town, law-yers have to be nice, particularly when they have to livewith the results of family disputes.

My sister explained that a surviving spouse was entitledto half of the common property, regardless of the length of amarriage and despite any provisions of a will. This meantthat she had first picks on furniture and property including afamily auto. The widow’s daughter encouraged her to claimthe car, since it was the largest single asset. Thomas wascooked and quit speaking to everyone in the family.

“What are we fighting over,” I asked my sister. “Did Un-cle have any hidden millions?”

“All he had was his pension, his furniture, his car, andabout $30,000. There are seven of us named to share theestate, before the widow got her share. By the time I pay thelawyer and take my expenses, I may have to bill all of us toget enough to close the estate.”

About 6 months later, the estate was probated and every-one got what was due them. Thomas did not get the car. Henever spoke to my sister again. I gave my share to mymother, a modest gift.

I told this story to a lawyer friend. He laughed and thenhe sighed and told me his war stories. Uncle was not thefirst to tangle his affairs and die suddenly. “It’s not the sizeof the estate as much as it is the emotional ties in the familythat make estates difficult to settle. Family members whobarely knew each other get very insistent on getting theirshare. That’s why lawyers charge so much to handle estates.They take all the blame from those who do not get whatthey wanted.”

Otha Linton, MSJ

Potomac, MD