Between my junior and senior years in high school I was fortunate to receive a scholarship to Interlochen’s Summer Camp for the Arts in Michigan. To give credit where it’s due, the high school band director, Ron Wells, recommended me for the scholarship, which was awfully nice of him. He and his wife, Dotty, were helpful and supportive during my teen years, with Dotty giving me flute lessons in exchange for babysitting, a plan of mutual benefit that lasted until their kids outgrew the need.
There were some gifted artists in the music program in our high school and, to be clear, I wasn’t one of them. I was merely good. Nevertheless, this escape from the panhandle came at a good time. During my junior year, things hadn’t been great at home. My parents didn’t get along. My older sister was moody and always at odds with our mother, and our father was bipolar and went weeks without speaking to any of us. In short, there was always tension. I lived in the basement, kept my head down, read and did homework, played my flute, and was grateful that my mother and father’s focus never drifted in my direction.
And because of this oppressive domestic stress, when the chance to spend a summer elsewhere came along, I was thrilled. Though the goal of the camp was to help the students become better at their chosen craft—and as six hours a day was spent in lessons and practicing, improvement was unavoidable—my personal goal was to enjoy the time away. Interlochen attracted smart and talented artists from all over the world, and I was so looking forward to meeting anyone not from Amarillo.
I expected the others in my cabin of twelve to be studious and dedicated. Some were, most weren’t. In the beginning, we explored our differences—our diverse colloquialisms, dietary preferences, and traditions made us fascinated with one another. The dancing, acting, and music-making only took a portion of our time, and we soon became a tight gang of geeks. When making our way to class, a meal, or back to the cabin, one of us would break into song or leap forward in graceful jetes; or a drama student would deliver a spontaneous Shakespearean soliloquy. I will always appreciate people who lack inhibition. As for me, within the first two days I had been named social director of our cabin.
In Texas, I was reserved and contemplative, and I kept my witty (some would say smartass) remarks tucked firmly inside my head. At Interlochen I put that person away. Maybe I went a little crazy. My new dedication was to my almost frantic pursuit of a good time, and I took my duties as the social leader of our crew seriously, so seriously in fact, that I was soon known as “The Instigator” among the cabin counselors. At my prompting, we snuck out most nights. We went skinny-dipping in the lake and, floating on our backs, spoke languidly of our dreams. We switched the names of the cabins around, dumped garbage on porches, tied doors closed, lifted small bits of furniture on to roofs, and went on forbidden excursions into the state park.
At one point, our counselor became so exasperated with our noncompliance that she threw her mattress on the floor beside my bed, effectively blocking me in my lower bunk.
“There will be no more night adventures,” she declared. She was a fun-loving grad student at U-Penn, and we took pride in having pushed her to take such an extreme step. She slept by my bed for four nights—and then, when she moved back to her cot, things went back to the way they’d been before.
Legendary singers, musicians, and comedians performed at Interlochen on a weekly basis. The cost of the tickets was prohibitive for the campers, but we were allowed to attend the rehearsals on the afternoons before the performances. Maynard Ferguson came, as did Bennie Goodman. And everybody was excited about Bob Hope. Though he was from our parents’ era, we’d been led to believe that he was funny and charming. Sad to say, this wasn’t the case. After he groused about the acoustics, the sound system, and the rainy weather, he insulted the accompanist (“I’ve known dogs who play better than you!”) when she began Buttons and Bows at too slow a tempo. This was a sweet-natured sixteen-year-old girl, nervous to be on the stage with him, and surely one of the most gifted of her age group at the camp; and his mean-spirited denigration caused a wave of aversion to pass through the airy theater.
At the end of the summer, my mother, my cousin Georgia, and my little sister came to drive me back to Texas. We stopped by Opryland on the way. After having been saturated in classical music for over two months, Nashville gave me an unprecedented love for country and blue grass music.
From my experiences at Interlochen, I learned that Amarillo was a miniscule pocket in a massive world. I returned home more confident and less cautious. And I realized that some people spend their whole lives in one place, knowing only one outlook, experiencing only one culture. That they would make this choice isn’t only their loss, it’s the world’s loss, because you can’t understand someone if you don’t take every opportunity to get to know them.
What does this picture have to do with anything? Absolutely nothing! I got the flowers and card from my sons on Mother’s Day and I didn’t have a picture to go with the blog.
