"A father is neither an anchor to hold us back, 

nor a sail to take us there, 

but a guiding light whose love shows us the way."

--Anonymous

Today is Fathers Day.  

As a matter of complete transparency, I have to admit that Fathers Day and I have a love/hate relationship.  Fathers Day has been a struggle for me at times, and it has been a day of overwhelming happiness, and sometimes, both of those occur at the same time.  

Like anyone who misses his or her father, Fathers Day sometimes has a little sting to it...if you let it...and I admit I often let it.  But Fathers Day also has some absolutely blindingly awesome joy to it, as well!  

Today, I went to church with Jackson and Ashlyn.  It was the first time we've all three been at church together since before the COVID-19 shutdown.  It was completely amazing to be there with them.  In addition to being there with them, we got to watch Alan Lindsey baptize his youngest daughter, Audrey.  I remembered baptizing my children, the twins in the very baptistry in which Audrey was baptized today.  As I watched, I thought about how special it was to get to baptize your child on Fathers Day!!! But then I thought about how special it would be to get to do that on most any day.  I don't mean to lessen or demean the experience that Alan and Audrey had today, but rather I am trying to point out that getting to be a father is special EVERY day.  

During the service, Troy Jones read something that made me laugh, out loud, and loudly.  It was an excerpt from a book by Max Lucado.  In the passage, Max was discussing how children view their dads--as DADDY...not as FATHER.  

He described one kid as the typical kid who is excited to see his daddy!  Lucado then says this:

"What I didn't hear was this: 'Father, it is most gracious of thee

to drive thy car to my place of education and provide me with

domestic transportation.  Please know of my deep

gratitude for your benevolence.  For thou art splendid

in thy attentive care and diligent in thy dedication.' "

Not a one of us would talk to our own fathers that way...because they are daddy....but we sure do talk to God that way, and we do it out of "reverence" and "piety."  Give me a break.  If my kids saw me after a brief absence and talked to me that way, it would kill me.  And if I were to get to see my dad after what is now 43 years of absence, you bet your paperless hymnal I wouldn't be all KJV with him.

Getting to be a daddy is special.  The years fly by as your kids grow up, and it often goes by in a blur.  But it is a beautiful, spellbinding, hold-on-for-dear-life kind of blur.  And I wouldn't trade it for anything.  

I became a daddy on March 19, 2002.  Jonathan Grant Brewer was born that Friday and my world changed forever.  Then it changed again on January 6, 2006 when Jackson Graham and Ashlyn Reagan Brewer were born.  If you three ever read this, I hope you know/remember how much I love you, and how you are the apple of my eye.  

In thinking of my own dad, I have done more wondering than I have remembering.  I was so very young when he passed that I really don't have many memories of him.  

I wonder if he ever just wanted to sit and watch me and Thomas play.

I wonder if he ever told his friends "hey, man...that's my boy!"

I wonder if he wondered what I would grow up to be.

I wonder if he would have been proud of me.

I wonder if he would have worried about me.

I wonder if he would have been at a loss for words sometimes because watching your children grow up is just so freaking amazing.

I wonder if he would have felt like he failed me.

I wonder if he ever wished he'd done this or that differently.

I wonder if he ever had that feeling at the end of the day, when your kids drift off to sleep, that today was a good day.

I wonder if he ever daydreamed about the future of his kids.  

These are all things I do/have done.  

Fathers...your role in your children's lives is immeasurable.  Sadly, you live in a world in which masculinity has been made a punch-line in sitcom television and where the male in the family is often more of a motley fool.  Sad really....because our role is vital in the development of our children.  It's not more important that the role of a mother, it's just a different role.  Both are important.  

And to Johnny R. Brewer, Sr....wherever you are out in the infinite cosmos of God's existence...I hope you know I'm proud you were my dad, and I'm proud I'm your son.  I'll see you one day.  

Blessings.

"There's no way to be a perfect mother, and a million ways to be a good one."

--Dr. Seuss

I haven't blogged in a while.  

Tonight, I resume blogging with a post that I already feel will fall short of capturing what I intend to capture....in any case, here goes....

On November 10, 1972, my mom became a mother.  As a father, I witnessed the birth of my three children.  I was there.  I was mere feet away from the amazing Dr. Michael Wells when he cleaned my kids mouths out, and they cried, and he said "Roll Tide."  But I didn't birth them, so I only know indirectly what my mother went through on that Friday in late 1972 in Columbia General Hospital.  Sure, there were probably epidurals and such, but she did the work of birthing me, and she would do the same when Thomas and Jeremie came along....and she did it alone. 

On February 23, 1977, my father died on the quarter boat "Dan" in the Gulf of Mexico, a mile or so off the coast of Cameron, Louisiana.  When my mother got the news, she had two small boys at home.  She didn't even know yet that she was pregnant with my sister. But she picked out the suit dad was buried in, and the color of his casket, and probably even what kind of flower was pinned to the lapel of his jacket, and she buried my dad a few days later....and she did it alone.

In June 10, 1979, my mom lost her father.  My papa had a heart attack and died suddenly, long before anyone could have revived him.  My grandmother had a severe case of dementia, and probably Alzheimer's--I'm not sure if that was a diagnosed illness in 1979.  Mom, Thomas, Jeremie, and I lived across the street from my grandparents on Perry Street, and my parents were constants in our lives, but mom now had to bury another man in her life, and because of my granny's mental state....she did it alone.

My grandmother would die about 16 months later, leaving my mother by herself to raise three small children.  Just typing that sentence stopped me from writing for a moment...just an absolutely astounding feat...yet so many women do this....

My mother would go on to witness and endure so many things all on her own, and I don't say any of that to pity her, but rather to point out her strength and her courage.  

Just thinking back, a flood of things come to mind....

I wonder how she handled it when she had to go confront my first grade teacher over some remarks on report card by herself....alone.

I wonder how she handled it when she had to make lunches for us for school DAY AFTER DAY AFTER DAY AFTER DAY....alone.

I wonder if she worried if she could afford the first trumpet she bought me?  My mom worked part time when we were kids.  The downside was that even coupled with survivor benefits from Social Security, the part time work she did didn't generate tons of money, though we NEVER went without.  The upside was that mom was home every morning when we left for school, and she was home every afternoon when we got home.  Mom was just THERE.  And she did it alone.

I wonder how she got me to ball practice, and Cub Scouts, and Camp Wiregrass...or paid for it....alone?

I wonder what it was like to look after me in the hospital when I broke my arm, and there were two other kids at home to take care of also??

I wonder what it was like to worry about her teenagers when we got our respective driver licenses?

I wonder what it was like to have to handle every discipline situation on her own???

I wonder what it was like to get a few hours of peace in a hotel room when she would take us to Fort Walton Beach and we'd stay at the Greenwood Motel on Okaloosa Island....alone.

I wonder what it was like having to raise rebellious (me) teenagers...alone.

I wonder what it was like when she watched us each leave the house as adults....alone.

I wonder what it was like when she watched Thomas join the Army with no mate to talk to about this....alone.

I wonder what it was like for her to sit in the audience for my first band concert as the director of the middle school band and wish that my dad could see it....alone.

And I wonder what it's like to this day for her to enjoy her kids and her grandkids....alone.

And I wonder ABOUT EVERY OTHER FREAKING THING SHE DID....alone.

My mother, as far as I'm concerned, is 10 feet tall and bullet proof.  The truth, however, is that she's really just 5'10" tall.  And maybe bullet resistant.  

My mom's a tough woman.  She's been through a lot of pure hell on earth, and she stands tall amidst it all.  She isn't, however, the only one of her kind.  There are countless women just like her in this world.  I know many of them personally.  They walk through things that we don't even know about. Maybe we have seen inside their world a little bit, but I suspect that, just like the experience of birthing a child, we can never fully understand what it's like to be a mother unless we are one. 

Mom...I can never repay what you've done for me, and I know that you'd never want me to--that's the beautiful thing about good mothers--the selflessness with which they do all that they do.  But I thank you.  I thank you from the deepest parts of my soul for everything.  I would be nowhere had you not been my mother.  The foundation you gave us, first at home, then at church, then through a world of experiences that still blow my mind to this day, have been the bedrock of my life.  I'd simply be nothing without you.  Thank you!!!

And to all you mothers reading this....the mothers who stand up and scream their lungs out when their baby makes a play on the athletic game....and to the mothers who stand up and scream their lungs out when their baby doesn't do quite what you think they should....thank YOU.  Keep doing what you do.  The world needs you.  The world is crying out for nurture. 

God bless.  

"Thank you India

Thank you terror

Thank you disillusionment

Thank you frailty

Thank you consequence

Thank you, thank you silence"

--Alanis Morrissette

Have you ever been really, really thankful...for EVERYTHING???  

Here's a short list of what I'm thankful for.....

The table on which I'm currently propping my feet.

The wool socks on my feet.

My feet.

The legs to which my feet are attached.

Coffee.

Coffee.

And Coffee.

Friends who think the wacky stuff I sometimes write on coffee cups is funny.  

The Sharpie with which I write said wacky stuff.

Cranberry sauce.  

My momma's cornbread dressing on which I pile said cranberry sauce.

The spandex that is woven into the nylon pants I'm wearing...the extra room is needed today.

Antihistamines.

Drugstores that operate under capitalism which allow for me to buy said antihistamines.

The sound of Jack laughing in his bedroom.

Jack.

His sister Ashlyn.

Their brother Grant.

All their family, for without them, they wouldn't exist.

My stopped up nose...for without sometimes being sick, we wouldn't really know what health is.

Airplanes.

People who work in airplanes.

People who know how to fly, and most importantly, land airplanes safely.  Without them, there would be no OTMD.

The Spotted Cat.

The dollar I left there.

Melaine Marcella. 

Second chances.

Music.

Getting to play music.

Getting to teach music.

Getting to watch people I taught play music.

Movie theater butter popcorn.

Coca-cola from McDonalds.

Marco Polo videos from old college friends who just wanted to say "Happy Thanksgiving!"

Books.

People who write books. 

People who recommend me books to read.

Friends who have my back.

Rides in Corvettes.

The beach.

Hammocks tied up at the beach.

Sunsets.

Sunrises.

The fact that the sun rises.

The stars.

Ham sandwiches made with the ham you cooked for Thanksgiving.

Motorcycles.

Hot showers.

Cold showers.

Forgiving.

Being forgiven.

Employment.

Ibuprofen. 

Being reminded of when I'm right and when I wrong.

The opportunity to make someone's day.

Having my day made.

Sleep.

Insomnia, for that is usually when I sort things out.

Homemade vanilla ice cream.

Homemade vegetable beef soup.

Farmers who grow the ingredients for homemade vegetable soup.

The rain that makes those ingredients grow.

Gasoline.

Comfortable bed sheets.

My new mattress.

Ice makers in freezers.

Silence.

Sound.

The sound of Ashlyn's voice when she says "Daddy."

Getting to be a daddy.

Trees.

Trees that turn color in the fall.

Trees that don't.

Spicy BMT sandwiches from Subway.

Plagal cadences. Music folks will get that one...The one at the end of Maher 5, adagietto is divine.

Watching someone be completely happy.

Watching someone struggle, for in this there is an opportunity to help.

Winning.

Losing, for in losing, I grow.

Photographs.

Mercy.

Freedom to express all this crap.

Hope.

The center biscuit.

TJ Blackburn's syrup to go on the center biscuit. 

Feeling safe in my house at night. 

Late night talks on the phone.

Schilke trumpet mouthpieces.

Harmony.

The crust on the edge of piece of pecan pie. Lord yes.  

Honestly, this could go on forever, and that's the point!  EVERYTHING is something to be thankful for...even the random "trivial" stuff.  

Confucius said "we can be thankful today because we learned a lot.  And if we didn't learn a lot, we learned a little. And if we didn't learn a little, at least we didn't get sick.  And if we got sick, at least we didn't die."  Let that sink in.  

I think thankfulness is mindset more than it is anything.  We must train our minds to find the thing for which to be thankful, because sometimes that can be very difficult.  Life can, and often will, throw some real curveballs our way.  Sometimes, they are less curveballs, and more gigantic avalanches of STUFF! And when those days come and stay and turn into weeks or months or years....thankfulness might be our only escape.  I hope I can become more thankful than I am.  For everything.  

Have a great day folks!

"I miss those days."

--Frank Foster

I'm not a big country fan, but I've heard a song several times called "Miss Those Days" by Frank Foster that is pretty good.

I guess that I, like Frank Foster, and probably everyone else, really do miss "those" days.

I miss those days when my grandparents were still living and on Saturday mornings, I'd walk across the street to their house and my papa would make coffee, always poured in that jade green cup that I hope to inherit one day, and toast and I would dip the toast in the coffee while sitting in front of the window unit air conditioner in the dining room.

I miss those days when my dad helped me learn to roller skate by holding me under my arms so I wouldn't fall as I plodded awkwardly down the walkway to the street.

I miss those days when I'd walk down the street to Desmond Mott's house or he and Jason would come up to mine and we'd play baseball in the vacant lot beside the house where I grew up and where my mom still lives.

I miss those days when Vernell Craig would beat four of us in basketball all by himself.  And I miss Vernell Craig.

I miss those days when my Aunt Doris and Uncle Lloyd lived in Bay Minette and we'd ride down Highway 29/31 on Thanksgiving and have lunch and spend time with our cousins Janet and Kathryn. Susan and Mary would be born later on after that.  I always remember the guns that Uncle Lloyd had over this freezer on a gun rack.  They looked old even then, and I miss old guns.

I miss those days when Friday nights would roll around and we'd watch the Dukes of Hazzard.

I miss those days when my brother and sister and I would lie in the floor in the front of the furnace because the warm air was like Heaven on earth on a cold morning.

I miss those days when mom would take us to Fort Walton Beach on a whim for the weekend and we'd play in the pool and not on our phones.

I miss those days when I was 13 and I mowed grass all summer with a push lawn mower, sweating like a pig and learning independence and I was awkward and girls were like uncharted territory and Valentines Day was scarier than a Steven King book.

I miss those days when  Elmore Lewis would just be Elmore Lewis.  He was so great.

I miss those days when the JCPenney or Sears "Wish Book" would come to the house in the mail and we'd fight over getting to look through it.

I miss those days when Camp Wiregrass was my second home and the friends I made there were like anchors in my childhood.

I miss those days when I got my drivers license and a car was freedom and the open road seemed endless, even it was only just a lap around the bypass or when I got rear-ended in front of the fire department and Melanie Foshee was in TC 107 with some friends decorating for a party watching the whole thing unfold.

I miss those days when Keith Grissett and Grey Sharpe and Christy Smith and David Bodie and Larry Burnette were still with us.

I miss those days when I was a senior with absolutely no sense of direction for my life...it all turned out OK.

I miss those days I played in the LBW Ensemble and Jerry Padgett would tug at his right ear every time the horns were out of tune and when he would walk into music theory, hold out his hand and say "suture," like a doctor...because he had LOTS of homework mistakes to correct.

I miss those days when Kim Dyess gave me a chance to teach the middle school band for a couple months when I was completely unqualified.

I miss those days when I joined Southwind.

I miss those days when I moved to Troy and met Susanna and Doug and Art and Michael and Sena and Casey and Rocky and on and on....

I miss those days when I graduated and my mom was in the audience but my brother couldn't be because the Army.

I miss those days when I got my first job as a band director and when I got the job at the college.

I miss those days when Grant and Ashlyn and Jack were born and the world was perfect, if only for a moment.

I miss those days when right was right and wrong was wrong and it didn't seem so convoluted as to which was which.

I miss those days when I didn't miss those days....



....................................................



The past is really all we have to look at. But I choose to believe the best days are actually ahead, so maybe one day I'll revisit this blog and write another post about things that outshine those days I mentioned above.  But until then....I miss those days.

"Could you wanna take my picture, 'cause I won't remember."

--Filter, "Take a Picture"

Recently, I noticed something strange about my Apple Music....it is FILLED with songs that have the word "picture" or "pictures" or "photograph" in the title.  To wit....

The Cure:  Pictures of You (3 versions...hey, I like the song)

Mussorsky: Pictures at an Exhibition

Flock of Seagulls:  Wishing (If I Had a Photograph of You)

Nickeback: Photograph (don't judge)

Def Leppard:  Photograph

Filter: Take a Picture

Miranda Lambert: Picture to Burn (we did it in Ensemble years ago--cut me some slack)

And then are songs that are about pictures, chief among them "In Color," by an old friend of mine named Jamey Johnson.  

We're obsessed with pictures...photographs...portraits.... Whatever you call them, we love them.  I mean, Instagram exists because we love to share our world through pictures.  

But something about pictures struck me this summer while I was on the road with Southwind.  

We were in Buffalo/Niagara Falls for a few days, and on the last day, we had some free time at Niagara Falls.  As you can imagine, everyone was snapping selfies at the falls. It's a pretty amazing place.  I had never been there, so I took some pics there myself.  As the staff and members all kinda stood around admiring the view, I thought about how I was about to catch an Uber to a hotel and my involvement with Southwind would end for 2019.  And then, I thought "well, the pictures will be a good reminder of a great week on the road."  And it was that word....reminder.....that stuck in my head for days on end.  

The truth is that a picture is just a reminder....and it is ONLY a reminder.  Nothing more.  We take photos in an attempt to stamp our place in time so we can say "I was there." But the picture isn't "there." It's a just a reminder of "there." Now, don't hear what I'm not saying!!  Take the dang picture!! Take as many as you want!! But the key, I think, is this:  don't let the camera get in the way of what is really going on, which is THE MOMENT.  Be IN the moment.  Pause for a second and look around you.  Take it all in!!! And be PRESENT in the present reality.  

You see, we can look at people's pics and we can tell "what" they were doing.  We might can tell "where" they were doing.  And just maybe, we can tell "how" they were doing.  But that's still our own inference, and our inference may be way off!! The picture is only a "snapshot" of the reality that was.  And to me, the reality that was is what is truly BEAUTIFUL!!! My memory of an event that was captured by a picture is FAR, FAR, FAR better than the picture.  A picture is two-dimensional.  My memory is infinitely-dimensional.  Pictures can't capture the smell of perfume....or the sound of a waterfall....or the freezing cold you felt on that skiing trip....or the blistering heat you felt on the 11teenth time you repped that part of the show.  

Jamey Johnson's words say it so perfectly:  "if it looks we were scared to death.....you should have seen it in color."  

The pictures of my kids that sit on my cabinet at work are all great pictures and I wouldn't take anything for them....but they pale in comparison to my kids themselves.  REAL life was found in the moment the picture captured: not in the picture itself.   If it looks like Ashlyn was beautiful in that red dress at Miss Middlusia...you should have seen her in person.  If it looks like I was happy as could be to be sharing that moment at church with Grant...you should have seen it in person.  If it looks like Jack and I were tired and worn out standing on that bridge...you should have been there to smell us! LOL!!!  

I'm sure one day, I won't be able to remember anything at all--God forbid.  But for now, my memory works, and the memories I have of all the moments these photographs captured are absolutely priceless.  The truth/meaning/significance that we infer from events in our lives is up to us to determine, and whatever that is, is our reality.  If you ask the people in a picture how they remember the moment, they'll probably all have differing stories...but they'll all be right!!  That's kinda cool if you ask me.  

Have a great day. 

"The language of friendship is not words, but meanings." 

--Henry David Thoreau

How does one even begin to define a friendship?  With what words?!?  

The people pictured above have shaped my life.  They have helped sculpt me into what I am today.  I owe them a debt of gratitude.  Maybe this post will be a small down-payment toward what I feel I owe to them.

Left to Right, after me....

Chad Faison.  Mobile, Alabama.

I met Chad Faison in December 1991 when I auditioned for Southwind.  We weren't terribly close simply because I played mellophone and he played baritone.  The dude is an insanely talented graphic artist--he designed our tour shirt for the 92 season.  Wish I still had mine.  I'm not sure Southwind means more to anyone than Chad.  He was involved with the Montgomery version of the corps as well as the Kentucky version, if I remember right.  He's also an alum of Atlanta CorpsVets, an all-age DCA corps.  Chad personally ensures that all our brass instruments work and he teaches our baritones.  He's a band director, like most of us, and at one time, he ran the art program at Fairhope High School, as he has a bachelors degree in art.  Chad and I have taught at Southwind since Dave Bryan brought us in in 2014.  He's also a pretty great Cards Against Humanity player as well.

Dell Trotter.  Gulfport, Mississippi

I met Dell when he came on board in 2015.  I was the caption head at the time.  It didn't take long for me to realize Dell would make a better caption head than I, and I openly admit that, and told him as much.  He's a heck of a teacher.  Dell and I have so many similarities....children...working at community colleges....we're basically the same age, although he will tell you I'm WAY OLDER.  We hit if off real quick in 2015 and when the corps decided to change caption heads for 2016, we became even closer, I think.  No telling how many cups of coffee we drank at Starbucks in 2015 when the corps stayed at McGill-Toolen.  When Chad and I were marching Southwind, Trotter was on the field with Spirit of Atlanta.  I remember Spirit's show that year well.  Those hot pink bodysuits the color guard wore....whoa.  But I digress.  

Michael Roy.  Foley, Alabama

I have only known Roy since last December.  Roy was in the 2008 Phantom Regiment...the year they won it all playing Spartacus.  Wow, what a show.  Roy works at Foley High School and he teaches Southwind's baritones with Chad.  He's a giver, having offered to keep some of my gear at his house for a while once after a camp when I was on my motorcycle.  

Don Bell.  Laurel, Mississippi

Don Bell....this guy is as quick-witted as they come.  Just about everything he says is hilarious.  He teaches our mellophones.  Don went to Southern Miss and lives in the same town that my dad was from.  He works at one of the more successful band programs in MS, Petal High School and was a member of Forte.  Don joined the Southwind staff in 2016.  He was there for the infamous water break teaching fiasco.  He stood by me, though, through it all, and I haven't forgotten it.  Lite ice.  Always lite ice.  LOLOL.  

Aaron Fiveash.  Southaven, Mississippi.  

A-A-Ron also joined the staff in 2016.  He taught mellophones with Don that year, but has helped me with the trumpets since.  AARon and I have been through a lot of crap together.  We've had 6.02 X 10^23 conversations about stuff ranging from, well everything to everything else.  Aaron and I both were taught by Jim Zingara, although at different universities.  We both were affiliated with Teal Sound, though at different times.  He won a world championship with Memphis Sound.  Like Don, he  counseled me through WaterBreakGate 2K16.  I owe you buddy.  Oh, cereal is a soup. 

Bethany Presley.  Bay Minette, Alabama

Bethany (Queen Bea) came on board for the 2019 season.  She's just about done with her music education degree from Auburn--War Eagle!  She was a member of Pioneer in 2014.  Bethany teaches the trumpets with me and A-A-Ron.  She quickly fell right in with our merry band and has been on the entire tour this summer with the hornline.  She's been running the upper brass section the last couple weeks of tour, and is doing a great job with that.  #BrassStaff!

Ashton "Tuba" Cain.  Orlando, Florida

Ashton was a tuba player at Teal Sound in 2012 when I taught there...they year Teal folded.  What a hard time that was.  Ashton went to college at Berklee College of Music in Boston, and his apartment was next-door to Victor Wooten.  Lawd.  He joined us in 2018 as a tuba/baritone instructor. One thing about Ashton is that he is going to crack you up.  Even without saying anything.  But he's dead-serious about music, and he's a heck of a bass-guitar player.  I mean, bruh went to Berklee!

Daniel Herndon.  Hattiesburg, Mississippi.

Last but certainly not least is Herndon.  Weighing in at 104 pounds soaking wet, Herndon will kill you in breathing block. Like DOA.  He teaches the mellophones with Don, although on this summer's tour, he's basically been running the entire low brass section, and is doing a killer job with that.  Back in February, he and Bethany and I went up to do an audition clinic at Jacksonville State University.  One thing I remember about that trip was that neither of them had been to Mount Cheaha before, so I took them.  Herndon studied music education at Southern Miss and took lessons from Jacqueline Adams, who I know from the PSO.  

There are others I've taught with at Southwind who aren't staff this season, but are still Southwind.  Jorge Alarcon, Ryan Lastrapes, Colleen Hulihan, and even Nathan Shuffitt, who is now our visual caption head have taught the horns in the past.  

We've piled in the car to go get food at random burger and BBQ joints all over the gulf coast.  We've taught in tiny classrooms and huge gyms.  We've wondered why the horns were on the 15.  We've slept on air mattresses on the floors of more schools than we can name.  We've walked miles and miles around football fields all over the United States telling kids both the good and the bad of their playing.  We've watched our respective kids grow up (those of us that have kids).  We've laughed with each other, and most definitely at each other.  We've shared struggles in personal life and professional life.  We've helped rebuild a drum corps that has meant the world to so many alumni and fans.  We've grown together as teachers and as people.  

There is no way in the world I'd trade anything for any of the experiences I've been afforded through the people in the Southwind organization.  The people are always at the heart of the drum corps experience.  The people who you get to create art with.  The people who refine your skills through their own skills.  Those people are priceless and they make the experience priceless.  I struggle to remember tour sites.  I struggle to remember how the opener was in its original version.  No way I can tell you what the opening set looked like in 2018 or any other year.  But I can guarantee you that I remember the people.  In fact, I'll never forget them.

In that picture is nearly 100 years worth of teaching experience.  In that picture are three DCI world champions. In that picture is a wealth of musical experience.  But more importantly, in that picture are eight people I'd do anything for.  

Hey, let's do it again in 2020.  You hear me, guy?  

"My name is Ozymandias, King of Kings.  Look on my works, ye mighty, and despair!"

--Percy Bysshe Shelley, "Ozymandias"

Bev Smith taught this poem in ENG 262, English literature II, when I took it 25 years ago.  I have no recollection of whether or not I did well on that exam,  nor do I have any idea why it suddenly popped into my head while out walking recently.  I must have stored it in my subconscious during class. 

Shelley was an atheist.  This wasn't uncommon during the Romantic period of English literature--the Romantics thought nature was God.  Romantic era literature, painting, and music all depict this intense love for the natural world, so it isn't really accurate the say Shelley was an atheist, for, as David Foster Wallace puts it,  "everyone worships something."

And it's in "Ozymandias" that Shelley comments on mankind's most often-worshiped god:  SELF.

The poem goes like this:

I met a traveler from an antique land

Who said: Two vast, and trunkless legs of stone

Stand in the desert.  Near them, on the sand

Half sunk, a shattered visage lies, whose frown,

And wrinkled lip, and sneer of cold command,

Tell that its sculptor well those passions read

Which yet survive, stamped on these lifeless things,

The hand that mocked them and the heart that fed;

And on the pedestal these words appear:

"My name is Ozymandias, king of kings:

Look on my works, ye Mighty, and despair!"

Nothing beside remains. Round the decay

Of that colossal wreck, boundless and bare

The lone and level sands stretch far away.

So Ozymandias (Ramses II) makes some giant, stone monument to himself and sticks it out in the Egyptian desert for all to see.  To show how great he is.  To make himself the center of the universe...or at least the amount of the universe that he knew about. Ok.  

Looking back on Egypt and its greatness through the lens of 2019, it is easy for us to just shake our head at the audacity of the pharaohs.  Where you at now, Ozy?? Huh??? What then???  

But we do the same thing, don't we?  Look around....humanism everywhere!  Monuments. Skyscrapers.  Statues of coaches who haven't even retired yet.  Buildings on campuses with peoples' names plastered on the outside in 12" letters.  I've even joked with Greg Aplin before about having such success with the Ensemble that the only thing left to do is decide what font we want our names in when they rename the Dixon Center after us.  Of course, that's all in jest, but it speaks to two things that live in our deepest heart of hearts:  we like to feel important, and we want to be remembered. 

The fact that this blog even exists in the first place indicates that I think people care what I think.  That I'm of some importance.  I might be.  But I'm probably not.  One day when I was a band director, I missed a couple day of school due to sickness.  The day I went back to work, Mrs. Henderson said to me "Mr. Brewer, I didn't even notice you were gone."  That was humbling.  And it speaks the real truth: none of us is THAT important in the long run.  

In the poem, right after the line "look on my works, ye Mighty, and despair," something amazing happens:  Shelley basically says "hold my beer."  Boom.  The next line:  "nothing beside remains."  Nothing.  Nothing but a colossal wreck.  The greatest ruler in the history of the Egyptian empire became nothing.

 He wanted to be eternal, and yet he was reduced to a broken statue, half-covered by barren sand standing in a desert commemorated by a poet who most 

people reading this probably don't remember studying in an

 English class taught by someone who's now dead. 

All that "greatness" reduced to nothing because of too much self.  Too much self because of too much pride.  And pride goes before a fall.  So I'm going to work on being less prideful because I don't want to be like Ozymandias--relegated to being remembered ONLY when someones opens a literature textbook in a class they won't even realize the significance of until years and years later.  

God Bless.