 |
| Piano playing days circa 1955 |
Mrs. Lucile Oliver was my grammar school piano teacher. She was from one of the Dakotas, and she used to tell me no matter how cold it got in Aberdeen, that South Dakota was a lot colder, how it started snowing in October and didn't stop until March or April. I have always liked extremes, whether it be weather or anything else; and when I was a kid I dreamed of finding somewhere extremely different from Aberdeen, so for awhile I thought of one day living in South Dakota.
She was a little on the dumpy side, with a sheaf of salt and pepper hair piled atop her head much like the hairdos at the turn of the 20th Century. Her 1950's horn-rimmed glasses completed the schoolmarm look. Which is all to say, no glamour girl was she!
I was kind of her star pupil when I was about eight or nine. I had no special talent, but I seem to remember managing an okay-version of “Fur Elise” at about that time. My Aunt Ruth in neighboring Southern Pines was particularly proud of my musical abilities, and she once arranged for me to perform on the new grand piano of one of her daughter's boyfriends. My big memory of that occasion was when my host pulled a cord and tassel, and summoned the butler to bring me a Coca-Cola. Needless to say, there were no butlers in Aberdeen, and I shouldn't think there are any left in Southern Pines by now either.
My grandmother Pleasants, who was an accomplished musician and who played the church organ for several decades, also sang my praises, but I don’t think anyone outside of the family was very interested one way or the other in my piano playing. At any rate, I was never very motivated, and preferred playing the sheet music of the day rather than my more serious assignments. I was nevertheless always fond of Mrs. Oliver, and I feel sure that it was mutual.
She had her piano classes in the
grammar school building. I don’t know exactly how it worked, as I don’t suppose
she was officially part of the faculty; but she was somehow subsidized by the school,
and her pupils also paid something extra for the lessons. It was certainly considered a plus for the
Aberdeen School, and for a number of years it worked out well for Mrs. Oliver also.
I guess it was when I was about twelve that people
started to whisper. It is one of the unfortunate
things about small town life, as opposed to a more anonymous bigger
city. When there is anything perceived
as gossip-worthy, things can quickly get out of control. Long before personal computers, gossip could go viral in no time.
That’s what happened with poor Mrs. Oliver.
Apparently she was having a liaison with a married man. I
don't think I ever knew who the other party was. The scandal clearly centered around her, and it was almost as though he were considered an innocent bystander. It wasn't long after the rumors began that I heard there was a movement to get rid of her.
Mrs. Lewellyn was the ring leader. She was a former school teacher and was known as a busybody. She was also a rather astute politician, and had recently been appointed to a place on the school board. My mother had never much cared for her, and when it came to light that there was a petition being circulated, Mother uncharacteristically jumped to the defense of Mrs. Oliver. I say “uncharacteristically” because both my parents tended to flee confrontation. Along the way, they communicated this dislike of open conflict to me, and I must say that it has served me very poorly throughout life, because it is pretty certain that those who know how to confront get along a lot better than those who don’t!
Mother did enlist some of her friends to start up a counter
petition, but it was too late. The
anti-Oliver movement had taken off like wildfire, and there was no turning
back.
It split the town, at least in my eyes. Even one of our family's oldest friends signed the vigilante petition. The friendship didn't really survive, though the initial hard feelings mended as the years went by. I never forgot, however, and I never forgave.
Anyway, Mrs. Lewellyn finally had her way. The school board gave little resistance. The fact that the families of most of Mrs. Oliver’s pupils counter-petitioned for her to stay had little effect. It was a moral issue, and she was pronounced not up to standard to teach Aberdeen’s little musicians.
Anyway, Mrs. Lewellyn finally had her way. The school board gave little resistance. The fact that the families of most of Mrs. Oliver’s pupils counter-petitioned for her to stay had little effect. It was a moral issue, and she was pronounced not up to standard to teach Aberdeen’s little musicians.
When her contract
was terminated (dramatically before the end of the school year) I joined a handful of her students to follow her, and she tried to make a living teaching in
each student’s home. But it was a losing
battle. Thinking back on it, I still feel a tiny bit
of guilt, because I chose this moment when her classes must have been so
important to her, to decide I no longer wanted to play the piano. I was oblivious at the time, and no more than
13, so it was hardly a condemnable act on my part.
She soon folded up shop and left the area for good. I think she went back to South Dakota. It turned out she had been diagnosed with
a terminal cancer about the time that petition was being circulated. No one had known. I corresponded with her for a short time
--with a lot of parental pushing-- but I
wasn’t very persevering, and like so many teenagers encouraged to do the right thing, I soon lost
interest.
She died a little more than a year after leaving the
area. Her funeral service was held in
Aberdeen, I cannot imagine why. It was the first funeral I ever attended, so I remember it well. The thing I recall the most was seeing
Mrs. Lewellyn there, she and some of the others who had signed the
petition.
There was a rather tawdry novel at the time which had a huge national success, “Peyton Place.” It was a study of the dark side of small town America, and had recently been made into a hit movie with Lana Turner. I remember thinking when I saw Mrs. Lewellyn at the funeral, what a great scene to slip into “Peyton Place!”
There was a rather tawdry novel at the time which had a huge national success, “Peyton Place.” It was a study of the dark side of small town America, and had recently been made into a hit movie with Lana Turner. I remember thinking when I saw Mrs. Lewellyn at the funeral, what a great scene to slip into “Peyton Place!”
... Some more Southern reminiscences
Friend Joel Fletcher, art dealer in
Fredricksburg,Virginia, author and grand raconteur, responds to today's posting with some of his own Southern memories, growing up in Louisiana:
It is the kind of thing that would have happened in Ruston, Louisiana, the
town in northern Louisiana where both my parents were born; not as likely in
then Cajun and much more tolerant Lafayette where I grew up.
Mother told me a story about a young couple who moved to Ruston in the
1920s. The husband got a job coaching at the local high school. One day,
just as the wife was about to get in the bathtub, she remembered that she
had forgotten to put in the window the card that indicated to the ice man
how much ice she wanted. She wrapped herself in a towel and went to the
kitchen. She was halfway across the room when the back door started to
open (doors were never locked in Ruston then) and she did not have time
to run back to the bathroom; so she ducked into the kitchen closet and was
squatting uncomfortably on the gas meter when suddenly the door to the
closet opened and there was the gas man come to read the meter. With no
presence of mind, she shouted: "I was expecting the ice man!" Everyone in
town knew about it by that evening, and the couple were shunned by the entire
town and soon moved away.
Lafayette, in the heart of Cajun country, was very different from Ruston
where my grandmother and aunts lived on what was known as "Presbyterian
Hill." Even as a young boy I knew about the whore house on Jefferson Street
on the other side of the railroad tracks. And I grew up hearing whispers of
adultery. When one prominent business man was caught having an affair, his
wife punished him, according to my father, by not leaving him so she could
make him miserable for the rest of his life.
When I was again living in Lafayette in the 1970s, one day my mother
startled me when the name of the wife of the town photographer came up in
conversation and Mother casually mentioned that during the war, when her
husband was away, the photographer's wife "worked as a prostitute at the
Terrace Hotel," as if it were a perfectly normal thing to have done.
I also took piano lessons, but only very briefly. My teacher was Miss
Rosenthal, sister-in-law of the wealthiest man in Lafayette, Maurice
Heymann, who owned the local department store and after the war built the
Oil Center for offshore business that was responsible for much of
Lafayette's prosperity during the oil boom years. Mr. Heymann had met his
wife in France during the First World War and she came with a spinster
sister who was a musician. I began taking piano lessons from Miss Rosenthal
when I was about 7 or 8. Somehow I was terrified of her. Not only did she
have a strange accent, but she made me balance dimes on my fingers when I
was practicing. I was almost relieved when I came down with a very severe
case of scarlet fever that kept me at home for many months of convalescence.
When I at last recovered, I never went back to piano lessons.
When I returned to Lafayette in the 1970s, I got to know Miss Rosenthal
slightly and realized that she was a very sweet, shy person, and I wondered
how I could ever have been so frightened of her. By the early 1980s, she had
become a little confused. I once saw her driving slowly through town with
her purse on the roof of her car. And about this time I heard that she had
gone into the First National Bank to make a deposit wearing only her slip
and a pair of shoes.
town in northern Louisiana where both my parents were born; not as likely in
then Cajun and much more tolerant Lafayette where I grew up.
Mother told me a story about a young couple who moved to Ruston in the
1920s. The husband got a job coaching at the local high school. One day,
just as the wife was about to get in the bathtub, she remembered that she
had forgotten to put in the window the card that indicated to the ice man
how much ice she wanted. She wrapped herself in a towel and went to the
kitchen. She was halfway across the room when the back door started to
open (doors were never locked in Ruston then) and she did not have time
to run back to the bathroom; so she ducked into the kitchen closet and was
squatting uncomfortably on the gas meter when suddenly the door to the
closet opened and there was the gas man come to read the meter. With no
presence of mind, she shouted: "I was expecting the ice man!" Everyone in
town knew about it by that evening, and the couple were shunned by the entire
town and soon moved away.
Lafayette, in the heart of Cajun country, was very different from Ruston
where my grandmother and aunts lived on what was known as "Presbyterian
Hill." Even as a young boy I knew about the whore house on Jefferson Street
on the other side of the railroad tracks. And I grew up hearing whispers of
adultery. When one prominent business man was caught having an affair, his
wife punished him, according to my father, by not leaving him so she could
make him miserable for the rest of his life.
When I was again living in Lafayette in the 1970s, one day my mother
startled me when the name of the wife of the town photographer came up in
conversation and Mother casually mentioned that during the war, when her
husband was away, the photographer's wife "worked as a prostitute at the
Terrace Hotel," as if it were a perfectly normal thing to have done.
I also took piano lessons, but only very briefly. My teacher was Miss
Rosenthal, sister-in-law of the wealthiest man in Lafayette, Maurice
Heymann, who owned the local department store and after the war built the
Oil Center for offshore business that was responsible for much of
Lafayette's prosperity during the oil boom years. Mr. Heymann had met his
wife in France during the First World War and she came with a spinster
sister who was a musician. I began taking piano lessons from Miss Rosenthal
when I was about 7 or 8. Somehow I was terrified of her. Not only did she
have a strange accent, but she made me balance dimes on my fingers when I
was practicing. I was almost relieved when I came down with a very severe
case of scarlet fever that kept me at home for many months of convalescence.
When I at last recovered, I never went back to piano lessons.
When I returned to Lafayette in the 1970s, I got to know Miss Rosenthal
slightly and realized that she was a very sweet, shy person, and I wondered
how I could ever have been so frightened of her. By the early 1980s, she had
become a little confused. I once saw her driving slowly through town with
her purse on the roof of her car. And about this time I heard that she had
gone into the First National Bank to make a deposit wearing only her slip
and a pair of shoes.
Your input is welcomed: frank.pleasants@libertysurf.fr
CROSS REFERENCING … a look at other postings
Aunt Ruth is also featured in "Renata" from Musings and Meanderings No. 4; Mother and Aunt Ruth in "Thanksgiving, Ruth and Dickie" from Hotel Musings No. 49; Grandmother Pleasants in Hotel Musings No. 2 "Grandmother Pleasants and Mrs. Kennedy" and Hotel Musings No. 4 "A Two-dollar Hamburger Under A Silvery Dome" (to access, click on highlighted titles).
