| January/February 1968



There is an old saying about 'patience being a virtue' and 'possess it if you can. 'Well once upon a time, probably twenty five years ago, we bought four tickets to hear the United States Marine Band. They were playing in a near-by town. Something happened at the time, which was unforseen. I went to the hospital instead. Someone else used my ticket while I fumed in my cut-up state. In all those twenty five years since, things were never just right to hear this band again.

Last week they played near home. My husband bought tickets, and this time I made it. It was worth waiting for, yes, even for twenty five years. What a marvelous experience! When they play a march it is really played, and this wonderful surge of patriotism permeates your whole system until you could stand up and shout, 'I am an American, and it is a grand thing to be an American.'

On the other hand, one can turn on our local radio station, any hour of the day, and almost regurgitate at the incessant junble beat that someone there, apparently considers music. And our patience at putting up with it is surely no virtue. It is a downright sin.

I am a great lover of good music, and possibly am more affected by it than some other people, and yet, perhaps not. I can remember playing Tchaikovsky's Concerto No. 1 in B-flat Minor for piano and orchestra on our record player for my mother a few years ago. Her response was this, 'My! What grand music!' And she didn't know an A from an F, nor could she ever carry a tune. It was part of the family jokes how Mother could murder any tune.

Yet one of the fondest memories we all have of her is how she would sing (off key, to be sure) 'My grandmother, she, at the age of eighty three, One day in May was taken ill and died. . .' The week before she left us she sang it for Mary as she lay in her hospital bed, and Mary, naturally amused, began to laugh. Then this dear aged lady chuckled and said, 'Well I'm eighty nine and not much good for anything, but I can still make somebody laugh.' What a memory to leave for the youngest of her twenty one grandchildren, a good clean sense of humor at eighty nine, aided by some form of music and the story it told. Our home was more than supplied with music as we grew up and this has been carried over in the lives of our children also.


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