One of my earliest childhood memories is singing along to songs as my mother drove around delivering newspapers from her car. I remember hearing songs that would stay with me the rest of my life. I also remember being brought to tears and begging to change the station by either songs that were too sad, or just plain terrible. At least to a toddler’s ears.
At my elementary school we had no preschool or kindergarten, so my school memories started with first grade. It was the first time I was in the same room with a real guitar, when the music teacher would make her weekly visit to our class. Up until then the guitar had only been something I saw on television, or in the windows of music stores. Hearing the beautiful sounds those strings made when she strummed them, I thought “this must be what it sounds like in heaven“. I still remember the first song that music teacher played for us, all the way back in 1973. It was “Michael, Row The Boat Ashore”. I definitely can trace my love for, and my moderate ability to play the guitar to that very moment.
Like many families today, the 1970’s were not an easy time to raise a family. My parents had six children, and did not have an easy time raising their brood. They did not own their own home , so we moved around quite a bit. Not always to the best of neighborhoods, but we always had clean clothes and enough food to eat, so I can’t complain. Being the new kids at school all the time though,was tough. Many times the only tangible thing that stayed the same for me and my siblings was my mother’s old record collection that would go with us on each move. She seemed to have everything in her box of old 45s. We may not have had any friends at the new school, but The Beatles, Elvis, Buddy Holly, The Beach Boys, Carl Perkins et al would be ready to entertain us and keep us company in unfamiliar surroundings, as soon as we unpacked the box.
I had just turned ten when our latest move took us across the bridge from Beverly to Salem. After five years we left the suburban ,single-family confines of our former town and moved into a tougher, more urban neighborhood of triple deckers, where sidewalks and asphalt took the place of lawns and woods . A lot of the kids at my new school came from families where school was not the primary focus at home. For most of these parents, much like my own, keeping the roof over their heads took priority over supervising homework. Many worked two or three jobs, and their kids were pretty much on their own when they weren’t in school. I had a paper route of my own soon after we moved in, and classmates I would often encounter on the street would make the completion of my route “interesting” to say the least.
We only lived there for three years and I have forgotten most of my teacher’s names . I do remember though, my music teacher, Miss McSorley. Unlike some of the other music teachers I had had up to that point in my young life, she played contemporary music. At school! I couldn’t believe it. Elvis.The Beatles. The Beach Boys. The Carpenters.It seemed as though she raided the record box at our house. She knew the power behind music, and was able to capture and hold the attention of thirty hungry, hyperactive and streetwise kids with the simple act of placing a needle on a piece of spinning vinyl. The class would start out as a rowdy, seemingly uncontrollable group, acting like a scene out of the movie “Lean On Me” , but seconds after that needle dropped we would all be singing our hearts out .
Throughout my life, through thick and thin, music has remained a constant in my life. It led me to learn the trumpet which I played from elementary to high school , including the marching band which allowed me travel to places I could not have seen at the time otherwise. I was able to travel across New England to Canada , performing and competing in competitions. As a teen I returned to my first musical love, the guitar, which soon led me to learn how to write songs, playing and recording in local rock bands with gigs from Boston to New York, as well as making lifelong friends. Now as a father, it is so gratifying to see my children developing their own love of music, standing at the threshold of music’s call. I am honored that music has enabled me to sing and play songs with the children of my church parish. Every time my son or daughter puts their fingers to the keyboard, or the children let it rip during our sometimes cacophonous sing-alongs in Sunday School , I really do hear the sounds of heaven.
At my elementary school we had no preschool or kindergarten, so my school memories started with first grade. It was the first time I was in the same room with a real guitar, when the music teacher would make her weekly visit to our class. Up until then the guitar had only been something I saw on television, or in the windows of music stores. Hearing the beautiful sounds those strings made when she strummed them, I thought “this must be what it sounds like in heaven“. I still remember the first song that music teacher played for us, all the way back in 1973. It was “Michael, Row The Boat Ashore”. I definitely can trace my love for, and my moderate ability to play the guitar to that very moment.
Like many families today, the 1970’s were not an easy time to raise a family. My parents had six children, and did not have an easy time raising their brood. They did not own their own home , so we moved around quite a bit. Not always to the best of neighborhoods, but we always had clean clothes and enough food to eat, so I can’t complain. Being the new kids at school all the time though,was tough. Many times the only tangible thing that stayed the same for me and my siblings was my mother’s old record collection that would go with us on each move. She seemed to have everything in her box of old 45s. We may not have had any friends at the new school, but The Beatles, Elvis, Buddy Holly, The Beach Boys, Carl Perkins et al would be ready to entertain us and keep us company in unfamiliar surroundings, as soon as we unpacked the box.
I had just turned ten when our latest move took us across the bridge from Beverly to Salem. After five years we left the suburban ,single-family confines of our former town and moved into a tougher, more urban neighborhood of triple deckers, where sidewalks and asphalt took the place of lawns and woods . A lot of the kids at my new school came from families where school was not the primary focus at home. For most of these parents, much like my own, keeping the roof over their heads took priority over supervising homework. Many worked two or three jobs, and their kids were pretty much on their own when they weren’t in school. I had a paper route of my own soon after we moved in, and classmates I would often encounter on the street would make the completion of my route “interesting” to say the least.
We only lived there for three years and I have forgotten most of my teacher’s names . I do remember though, my music teacher, Miss McSorley. Unlike some of the other music teachers I had had up to that point in my young life, she played contemporary music. At school! I couldn’t believe it. Elvis.The Beatles. The Beach Boys. The Carpenters.It seemed as though she raided the record box at our house. She knew the power behind music, and was able to capture and hold the attention of thirty hungry, hyperactive and streetwise kids with the simple act of placing a needle on a piece of spinning vinyl. The class would start out as a rowdy, seemingly uncontrollable group, acting like a scene out of the movie “Lean On Me” , but seconds after that needle dropped we would all be singing our hearts out .
Throughout my life, through thick and thin, music has remained a constant in my life. It led me to learn the trumpet which I played from elementary to high school , including the marching band which allowed me travel to places I could not have seen at the time otherwise. I was able to travel across New England to Canada , performing and competing in competitions. As a teen I returned to my first musical love, the guitar, which soon led me to learn how to write songs, playing and recording in local rock bands with gigs from Boston to New York, as well as making lifelong friends. Now as a father, it is so gratifying to see my children developing their own love of music, standing at the threshold of music’s call. I am honored that music has enabled me to sing and play songs with the children of my church parish. Every time my son or daughter puts their fingers to the keyboard, or the children let it rip during our sometimes cacophonous sing-alongs in Sunday School , I really do hear the sounds of heaven.
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