The Music In My Life
I think I was ten years old when my Mom decided it was time I needed some culture; some class; a touch of the arts. She wanted me to learn accordion. I wanted to learn guitar. The compromise became trumpet. I was going to become the next Louis Armstrong, the skinny white version anyway, she was sure of it.
For the next two years I practiced every day with lessons once a week. I practiced so hard my lips hurt from trying to make that rather small embouchure. Most kids would have a hard time practicing with the dedication that I put forth into that instrument. On the other hand, none of the kids I knew had a mother with a whole collection of wooden spoons and wasn’t afraid to apply them, in a loving way of course, when I slacked off.
Old Mrs. Bavari, who lived three houses down, used to sit on her backyard swing when I started to practice in my third floor bedroom with the windows open. She would wait until I finished practicing my scales and then she’d yell, “Hey Ronaldo! Playa thata Cherry Pinka song!” I became pretty good at that one and of course Gogi Grant’s, “The Wayward Wind”. Ah, the good old days!
Finally, after two years of hard work, I was chosen from the junior high school band to play “Taps” at the 1956 Memorial Day services on the town Green as the flag was raised to half staff. I knocked it dead! I nailed it! My little twelve year old heart was pounding with excitement. Maybe I was going to be the next Harry James or at least have a part in a band like his.
It wasn’t long after that awesome performance that I was replaced at first chair trumpet by a kid named Ricky Najaka. I was heartbroken as Mr. Marino, the band director, tried to explain to me the importance of “second chair” trumpet and the value of those harmony parts to a song. Yeah, right! Second is second! Nobody remembers “second” anything. I should have considered myself lucky. If he’d given me “third chair” I’d have been suicidal.
Mom took everything in stride and was simply happy I was in the band. The truth of the matter was she was just trying to coax me along because they had bought me a brand new Blessing Trumpet after my memorable Memorial Day performance and my being in the band was justification for that rather lousy investment.
When I got to the ninth grade I had about all of trumpet I could handle for one lifetime. However, I felt the music in me. Okay, maybe it wasn’t all that dramatic but I did kind of like music.
As I passed the school auditorium one day I heard some kids singing in the glee club. I’d seen the notice that had been passed around about tryouts for the glee club and thought, why not me? Hell, I’d played Eeyore the Donkey in the third grade play, Winnie the Pooh. I had a rather obscure part in The Pirates of Penzance as part of the crowd singing, Modern Major General. Hell, I had stage presence. I could act and sing. I thought I was in like Flynn.
After listening for a few minutes I ventured onto the stage where Miss Perry, the music director, was just getting ready to start her group singing again. She paused as she saw me standing there.
“Mr. Karcz…what can I do for you?” she asked.
“I want to try out for the glee club,” I answered confidently.
“Do you know how to sing on key and in pitch?” she asked tersely.
“Well, I think so,” I answered a little uneasy at her tone.
“What have you sung that you’d like to share with us?” she asked.
“Hey, Joe,” I said.
“And who wrote that song?” she asked rather snooty.
“I don’t know who wrote it, but Frankie Lane sang it,” I answered.
“Well let’s hear a verse of this memorable classic,” she said sarcastically.
I took a deep breath and let it all hang out.
“Heeeey Joe! Where’d y’get that…”
“Stop,” she yelled. “I’ve heard quite enough, thank you. I’d suggest, Ronnie Karcz that you learn to play the Tuba so no one ever has to listen to that voice again. You’re dismissed!”
I was crushed as I left the stage to the laughing of every kid in the glee club. I was so embarrassed and humiliated that I wouldn’t even hum for the next eighteen years let alone sing. While everyone else was singing Rock Around the Clock, Elvis songs, Blueberry Hill, and rockin’ and rollin’, I would sit silently.
It really didn’t matter because a short time later I kissed my first girl, got my first curly black hair, rekindled my interest in sports and started working on hot rod cars. Life was simple again!
Fast forward seventeen years. I was a single dad with a three year old son. I had just sold part of a business I owned in Florida. I moved to Stanley Basin, Idaho…population twenty-three. I was going to be a cowboy and have my own “spread”, so to speak. I was fortunate to have come to this beautiful place when there wasn’t even a half million people living in the entire state. In the 70’s Idaho truly was the land of unique individuals and other endangered species. However, that would change over the next twenty-five years as the Californians migrated to the Northwest by the millions.
My first spring out there I had to travel six miles further up into the mountains to count my cattle who were summer grazing in the White Cloud Mountains which were part of the Sawtooths. I would have my horse, a spare horse to ride, and a well loaded pack horse.
My old bow-legged, eighty-six year old, cowboy neighbor, Selby Hansen gave me all the directions and instructions I’d need on this day long ride up to a meadow where I’d find my cows. I would be up there for three days on my own counting my herd.
“Are you nervous, Ronnie?” Selby asked as he looked up at me on my horse.
“Naw…I’m excited but not nervous. I think I’ve waited all my life for something like this. It almost seems like a dream,” I replied as I buttoned my sheepskin coat in the chilly morning air.
“Don’t get stupid up there, son. You’re the only one who can hurt you. Go slow and go careful,” he said in a serious tone.
Of course he had some other advice for me, also.
“Remember what I told ya, Ronnie. Never drink downstream from the herd and for God’s sake don’t squat with yer spurs on,” he said with a laugh as he slapped my horse and off I went.
It was a slow but beautiful ride. Every landmark Selby had told me about kept me on the trail. There were a couple of places I had to dismount and walk while crossing narrow trails across shale slides. I had to be very careful not to hold the lead reins of the animals because if they slipped and went down, so would I…all the way to the bottom. That would most certainly be fatal.
About mid afternoon I reached the part of the trail Selby had told me would be my destination. There were two huge Ponderosa Pines that had grown together forming a beautiful arch over the trail. I dismounted and slowly walked under the arch in awe of the beauty. The horses followed without being led.
“Holy shit,” I said as I stepped into the clearing taking a deep breath. “This is awesome!”
What my eyes beheld would stay burned into my memory and is as vivid today as it was almost thirty five years ago. The high mountain valley was green with small patches of melting snow. Spring wildflowers were blooming like I’d seen in pictures of high Alpine meadows. The snow capped White Cloud Mountains were the backdrop with their peaks rose up to nine thousand feet. I could hear the songs of the birds as they welcomed spring and in the distance the occasional mooing of one of my cows satisfied with grazing on the new shoots of the high country meadow grasses. No book or picture could ever describe what I was witnessing.
As I stood in the midst of this wonderful creation my horse, Sissy, came to me and nuzzled against me. I opened my saddle bag to get my binoculars. I used my saddle to steady the glasses as I scanned the small valley looking for the cattle.
As I lowered the glasses from my eyes I noticed something beautiful. It sent a shiver through me. I could actually hear the sound of silence. It was like a low gentle whisper…a beckoning.
“So,” I said, “this is what John Denver must’ve meant when he wrote the lyrics, ‘where you can talk to God and listen to a casual reply.’ I think I understand.”
That trip had a profound effect on the rest of my life because when I got back down to the ranch I bought my first guitar, determined to write and sing about this beautiful place. For the next year I would practice every day for hours and to the point my finger tips bled.
Two short years later I was sitting in Casanova Jack’s Bar & Sportsman Club in Stanley, Idaho. It was a chilly, dreary March Sunday afternoon. Some friends and I were sitting around jamming and singing. I’d become pretty good on the guitar and could hold my own with my friends. The place was busier than normal and probably because of the two buses that were parked out front.
We had just finished playing a little tune I’d written called “Back To Idaho” when a young guy walked up and introduced himself.
“Hi. My name is John Tischendorf. I’m the Program Director with Channel 6 in Boise. We’re the ABC affiliate there. We’re up here to film some Public Service spots for the state and I’d like to talk to you about singing that song of yours in our spots,” he said laying his business card on the table and extending his hand to me.
I shook his hand and said, “Glad to know you. I’m Ron. Tell me John, which one of these guys gave you twenty bucks to come over here and lay this crap on me?”
“None of them. I’m serious. Read my card,” he said intensely. “It’s a great little tune and would work well with our spots.”
“Where are you going to do them?” I asked trying not to be too excited.
“Up at Stanley Lake tomorrow around noon when it warms up a little,” he answered. “What do you think?”
I looked at all my dumbfounded musician friends and said, “Sure…why not?”
My friend Charlie wasn’t about to let this go. He had been a guitarist and bass player for Paul Revere & The Raiders and a very accomplished Jazz player as well.
“You know, I could do a better job at singing and playing than Ron could do,” Charlie commented looking up at John.
John scratched his chin a little, looked down at Charlie with a serious look and said, “Well, that could be but you didn’t write the song. See you tomorrow Ron.”
Charlie looked at me after John Tischendorf walked away and said, “You know, this could be one of those life altering changes people talk about. You could end up singing and playing in bars, doing a record, doing concerts, women, booze, drugs, more women, and even more women. Are you ready for it?”
“Hell no, I’m not ready for it! Well, except for maybe the women,” I answered with a laugh. “I’ll just have to play it by ear just like I do with the guitar. The Lord hates a coward you know.”
Charlie was there the next day and watched as we shot the spots. On the way back to town he was excited.
“You did great today. I think when they air those spots on Memorial Day your life is going to be headed in a new direction,” he said confidently.
“Ya think, huh?” I responded stoically.
“I know so, Ron. I know,” he answered.
Life changing was an understatement. It was a complete 360 degree change. When the TV spots aired I started playing in small places as a single, then a duo, then a trio and finally I had a small band. Within a year I was on my way to Nashville, TN to record my song about Idaho and nine others I’d written. The requests for a record of the song was unbelievable.
After a month of recording we were finally in the Mastering studio where they do final mixes for the “Mother” copy of the recording. My producer, Jerry Michaels, was more than pleased.
“Do you remember the story you told me about your high school glee club teacher? What was her name?” he asked.
I laughed and answered, “Miss Perry. Miss Ruth Perry.”
“Yeah, well, I’ve been working on a letter to send to your high school along with a copy of one of these first ten pressings. I’m going to send it to her and that English teacher who told you that you couldn’t write a simple thank you note if he spotted you ‘thank’. I’m going to thank them for not ‘cultivating’ any latent talents you may have had back then,” he said sarcastically. “It’s amazing what teachers don’t bring out of kids.”
“Well, I wouldn’t be too hard on them, Jerry. If they had changed anything in my life then I probably wouldn’t be here right now,” I said trying to be philosophical. “I’m just enjoying the moment I’m in.”
Jerry didn’t listen and sent the package off to my old high school in Massachusetts. A few weeks later he received a note back from them saying they were building a time capsule to be buried and in it would be his letter and my album, “Just A Pilgrim”. I’m glad I won’t be around in 2061 when that bit of history is opened.
I have so many people to thank for helping me and supporting me become successful in a fifteen year slice of my life. I don’t know where to begin but it would be remiss of me not to mention how appreciative I am for all who were part of that time with me. Thank you all.
The last concert I did was a huge one. After it was over a cute little perky blonde TV commentator asked if she could do a “live feed” interview with me. I agreed.
After her brief opening she started, “Ron, I know you started late in life for someone in the music field. After all, thirty is kind of old for a musician to start out. What does it feel like to step out on a stage and see so many people knowing they came to see and hear just you?”
I thought a moment about that “old” comment and answered, “That’s easy to answer, Nancy.”
“Well do tell us,” she responded almost being condescending.
“Okay…close your eyes,” I said. “Tighter now. No peeking.”
She did as I instructed and then I said, “Picture the best sex you’ve ever had and tonight my life was better than that.”
I’m so glad we were “live feed” with no delay.
