A Family Story

Yesterday, a minor yet nevertheless noteworthy event occurred that has set me to thinking about my great-grandparents, Turner and Anna Hefley, whom I’ve written about before (see in particular “The Honey-Do List,” December 12, 2016).

William Turner Hefley, a 22-year-old coal miner, and 19-year-old Anna Isabelle Conley were married in 1891 and went to housekeeping, as they used to say, in Hillsboro, Illinois. By 1906, Anna had borne five daughters, of whom the third, Blanche Alberta, was my mother’s mother. (A son would finally arrive in 1915.)

By all accounts, Turner was a hard-working, conscientious fellow, well respected in the community. Although never well to do, he provided adequately for his family, and Anna managed the household well.

A good seamstress, she saved money by making clothes for the children, but she longed for a sewing machine to make the work easier and go more quickly. Turner thought $69.95 was too much to spend on a contraption, and although she argued that it would save money in the long run, he would not agree to its purchase.

Then one evening as he was walking home from work with his months’ wages in his pocket, Turner passed by the music store. On display in its window was a beautiful upright piano of dark, polished wood. He stood gazing at it, imagining his house being filled with music, his daughters taking lessons and becoming accomplished young ladies who could play and sing.

With hardly a thought, he went into the store and bought the piano, then rounded up some pals to help him get it delivered to his house where he installed it in a prominent place in the parlor.

The next day, her handbag weighed down with the coins she had squirreled away from her household allowance, Anna went to the dry goods store and bought a brand-new 1906 Singer sewing machine.

The last time I saw that piano was at my grandmother’s house in Litchfield, Illinois, in 1968.

The last time I saw that old Singer sewing machine was yesterday when my niece and her husband hauled it out of my basement and loaded it into their van. It has passed to the next generation, the fifth to own it and, I hope, to remember its provenance.

Does almost Ph.D. in musicology count?

When I have Facebook open on my PC, there are various temptations off to the right of the main postings -- games to play, headlines, today’s baseball games. I often don’t even see them, but something caught my eye yesterday – an image that looked like part of a cartoon, and it belonged to a group called Music Teachers. I like musical jokes, so I thought I’d click on it and see if I could look at the whole image.

I landed on their group page and was disappointed to see that even less of the drawing is visible. An introductory blurb welcomed all but warned that this was a closed (but not private) group whose membership “is limited to Private, Public, and Studio Teachers” over 18. There were three questions for me to answer, and if they had any doubt about me, my eligibility would probably depend on what the admins were able to glean about my musical background from my Facebook profile.

Well, thought I, let’s just see. I clicked on the Join Group button and tackled the first question:

In what setting do/did you currently or formerly teach music? If you are not a teacher, please answer the next question.  

I wrote: Private teacher of piano and guitar; Graduate Teaching Assistant teaching freshman sight-singing and ear-training.

That’s pretty good, isn't it? But, since I no longer teach, I had to go on to the next question:

If you are not currently a music teacher, how do you plan to benefit?

Um.  Well, I’d like to see the entirety of that cartoon, which might make me smile, or even laugh, which would increase my overall general disposition and health.

Ooh, well now, I don’t know – inadequate, probably.

Okay, how about – I could have the satisfaction of amusing people by telling stories, like the one about my guitar student Walter who wouldn’t stop looking at his watch, which is why even 40 years later, when I’m with someone who looks at their wristwatch, I automatically say, “Quit looking at your watch, Walter.”

What more could they want besides a former music major with some good stories to tell?

Well, we’ll never know now. I left the page, too afraid of failure even to try. I don't take rejection well. That cartoon might not have been funny anyway.

There was a third box, in which I was to write any number larger than 18, to show that I am not a robot. I doubt any self-respecting robot would try to join that bunch.

A walk or hit batsman doesn't count either

There's an outfit called Binny's Beverage Depot that sponsors some Chicago sports broadcasts. They have dozens of locations in and around Chicago, and we actually stopped at one last year on our way home from Iowa. I’ve visited a few liquor stores in my time, but I’ve never seen so much liquor, wine, and beer in one place in my life, so they're advertising catchphrase is apt -- If you can't find it at Binny's, it's probably not worth drinkin'.

For the last few years Binny’s has sponsored Chicago Cubs baseball, and one of their gimmicks is to donate $100 to Cubs Charities every time the Cubs first batter leads the game off with a hit. I say gimmick because it sounds a lot better than it is. They are hoping you don’t notice that even if every lead-off man in every one of the Cubs’ 81 home games gets a hit, they’d only have to fork over $8,100, and I think a place with 38 locations and a gazillion bottles of booze could do better than that.

But it’s not  going to cost them anywhere near that much, since even a really good lead-off hitter (according to MLB stats) starts the game with a hit only 39.8% of the time. At that rate there would be no more than 32 lead-off hits in Wrigley Field, costing Binny’s a mere $3,200.

I think you need to generous up a little, Binny.