A Little Love for the Piccolo
A Little Love for the Piccolo
Finding Inspiration in The Stars and Stripes Forever, Unique Outliers, and Embracing Personal Qualities for a Meaningful Life
This week we celebrate July 4th, the traditional birth of the United States. Not unlike actual babies, the United States had much to learn, complete with growing pains. We still do. I believe we’re on that bumpy road still.
Speaking of learning, this is the second in a series of three posts regarding my trip to Duke University’s 2023 commencement activities. Don’t miss the first for more context on why I was there and what I learned, beginning with the lessons of a 5-year- old.
I swear to you, I did not plan to talk about Stars and Stripes Forever and these thoughts the day before July 4. It just happened. I wrote most of this post weeks ago.
Was it the synchronicity of the universe?
God’s timing?
I don’t know, but the serendipity is real.
Here’s the story:
On the morning of the Duke’s campus-wide graduation ceremony, I made sure to arrive early. I had two goals. First, a parking spot. I assumed the lots would fill up and that “early bird” logic would work best. Second, I wasn’t sure how to get around campus, and I wanted to allow myself some time to find my way from wherever I parked to the football stadium where graduation would be held. The ceremony was scheduled to start at 9AM, so I arrived at 7:30.
I was not alone.
By the time I approached campus, traffic in the area was beginning to congest. It appeared I’d gotten there just in the nic of time. Parking attendants were efficient and guided us towards a parking garage which they began filling from top to bottom. I found a spot next to the stairwell on the fourth floor.
I walked downstairs, headed outside, and discovered locating the stadium wouldn’t be a problem. Everyone was going to the same place, and the lines of people walking out of parking lots towards the graduation venue reminded me of lines of ants marching towards a piece of candy melting in the summer sun. While I couldn’t see my destination, it was clear I could follow the people in front of me, who were following the people in front of them, on and on, to get where I wanted to go.
They opened the gates to the stadium at about the moment I arrived, and the first throngs of people started to weave their way through security, past the concession areas and into the open seating sections to claim the best views of the proceedings. We were greeted by volunteer ushers who were donned in black ceremonial caps and gowns with a blue ribbon which read usher pinned to the left shoulder. In all my years of attending college graduations (I’ve worked most of my career in various capacities on college campuses) I had never seen the ushers uniformed like this. It struck me as a unique and festive way to set the tone for what we were about to experience.
It was quiet when I arrived. The only sounds were of people talking quietly here and there. I eavesdropped a bit.
“I don’t know, sweetheart.” Said one guy who seemed to be about 30. “I’m not a weatherman. My weather app says there’s a 40% chance of showers, but I can’t predict it any more than that. Besides, most of the seats under the overhang are filled.” He was quibbling with his wife as they headed down into the seats out in the open, clearly annoyed with her concern about showers which probably wouldn’t materialize.
“But there is a chance we could get wet.” She protested. “Are you sure we should risk it?”
“You know what, you’re right.” Answered the husband, turning on his heel and trudging back up the stairs. “I’ll just go back up these stairs and find a couple seats in all those people. I’m sure they’ll be happy to move.” His comment dripped with passive-aggression.
“Chris……stop…” She admonished, not pleased to have been condescended to in front of the strangers in the stands.
I smiled a bit and shifted focus to mind my own business. I’ve been that guy, acting like a jerk and all. The interaction made me miss my wife who was home, unable to make the trip.
I looked at the overcast sky. As far as I could tell, Chris’s weather app was dead on. The sky said it might rain, but probably not.
My thoughts were interrupted by the band which had taken to the stage and began filling the air with festive music. Straight away, their playing brought new, happy energy to the stadium. I’m not sure what I expected the band to play before the ceremony began, but I wasn’t expecting to hear John Philip Suza’s Stars and Stripes Forever. It’s what they led with, and I was glad they did. I always appreciate Suza, and for obvious reasons Stars and Stripes Forever brought up a bit of patriotic nostalgia within me. I don’t revel in American patriotic nostalgia like I used to. The nuance in our past has tempered that part of me a bit, even though I still like living here.
But I’m a sucker for live music, and I can’t resist some Suza. As I sat, smiling to myself, I realized there was something different about the band than the graduation bands I was familiar with.
It was the piccolo.
At the smaller schools where I’ve worked, there was never a piccolo in the graduation band. I imagine Duke being, well, Duke, provided more opportunity for having access to a piccolo. As I sat and listened to it play, I was struck by how important the piccolo is. Because without the piccolo…
…there’s no Stars and Stripes Forever. It’s as if the song was written for the instrument. Maybe not, but listen to the song, and then try to imagine it being played without it.
And I mean, try to imagine it. Because I can’t find an orchestration of the piece without it. I even asked ChatGPT to help. The AI told me to pound sand. I pounded sand in the form of Google. As always, pounding sand was a useless endeavor. I received exactly no returns of versions of the piece without a piccolo.
I mean, it’s kind of silly to consider anyways, right?
As I listened, with my foot engaged in the obligatory tap and head enjoying a measured bobbing, I got to thinking about the fact that this makes the piccolo flute pretty special. Some of the most festive American songs utilize it, and a band can’t play the song without it.
Then, because I think about things too much, I wondered how I was being a piccolo player in my world.
Is the world benefitting from me being in it? Is there any way that certain things aren’t possible if I’m not there to raise the bar, so to speak, the way Stars and Stripes Forever isn’t possible without the piccolo?
It’s a question I think we should all ask ourselves:
What are we doing to add value to the world?
We think a lot about adding value to our life, but what about adding value to the world?
As my brother extended thanks to his supporters on Facebook in the days following his graduation, he described me this way: “My brother, the writer, whose persistence in trying new things is a testimony to the world.” I don’t remember anyone else describing me this way before. As I read the short description, the words permeated through me and melted into my core the way butter melts into the nooks and crannies of a warm English muffin.
That’s exactly how I want to be known. It’s how I find fulfillment in the world.
I want to experience the world and share my experiences with people- the good and the not good - by writing about it. In doing so I provide a testimony to the world about what’s possible for us all.
This morning I sent a message to a recent subscriber - a stranger to me - thanking them for following my writing. I told them, “I hope you find [my writing] thoughtful, and that it brings love and joy to your life.”
Sometimes this plays out in the silliest of ways.
As I engaged in a fruitless internet search for a rendition of Stars and Stripes Forever without the piccolo, I headed over to YouTube. What I found instead was a long list of videos highlighting how many piccolos were in the orchestra. I came across a video of the Dallas Winds in which they went over the top in the piccolo department. Towards the end, as the piece picks up steam, 94 people stand up, piccolo in hand, and join in the 4th of July revelry. It was something to see.
As I sat at my computer, all alone in my writing nook, I teared up a little. The piccolo - the tiny little flute - made me feel good to the point where I cried watching a YouTube video.
I wasn’t even there…
I’ve learned however, that when I cry, I’m closest to the important things in life. I like that the piccolo exists. It exists on the fringes of the orchestral experience. It’s there to bring something no other instrument can.
So, in an effort to live up to my brother’s description of me, I’m going to continue to be persistent in trying new things in our world. I’ll write about them, hopefully in my own, unique way.
Just like the piccolo.
Next: How celebrating my brother’s success reminded me of my failure.