Battin High School - Red and White Yearbook (Elizabeth, NJ)

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I chose to study in the familiar church with the organist who played there. The first time I came for a lesson, Mr. Brown asked me to play a piano solo. I whizzed through my masterpiece, a polonaise by Franz Liszt. That's quite pianistic, he remarked. You'll find the organ quite different. There couldn't be that much difference, I assured myself as I followed him up the middle aisle of the church. Spectres seemed to come from each cheerless pew. The clip-clop of our steps sounded through- out the dark interior. When we reached the door on the left side of the foyer, Mr. Brown produced the key and creak! the door swung open. The click of the light switch echoed dismally up to the belfry. When we reached the loft, nothing but the sun-lit altar could be distinguished by a glance down- ward. No bright lighting, no silly hats, no tired children-nothing but darkness. The empty choir seats formed a U-shaped border on three sides of the console. The low balcony railing and the organ bench completed the rectangle. I seated myself on the long narrow board, my back to the enormous auditorium and my face to the four rows of keys. Little plastic tabs shaped like Hat lady-lingers protruded in neat rows of twelve. Each of these had printed upon it a name and number. The organist knocked down a few tabs here and there, after first pushing a button on the side to start the motor. He then sounded a few notes. These WERE quite different from the simple 88 pianoforte keys. A completely new method had to be mastered. Keyboards couldn't be called keyboards, they were manuals Tabs were not tabs, but stops The initial lesson was all technique. I was accustomed to the piano on which you can strike a note and continue to sound that note by put- ting the sustaining pedal down. Not so on this instrument, because there is no sustaining pedal. Now I had to keep my linger on a key till it was time to let it up and, in the meantime, awkwardly exchange my fingers so the next note could be reached without difliculty. Learning to use two feet in conjunction with two hands was quite a task. When probing the strange wooden slats with both feet, a safe balance was hard to maintain. And because I was a novice at this odd form of equilibrium, I fell into the organ three times. I wastglad I hadn't fallen backwards, for the balcony railing was no higher than the organ bench. I was given a key to the door of the spiral steps and thus had access to the church at any time that I could muster the courage to enter the silent darkness and not feel frightened by echoes of my own footsteps upon the tiled floor. I brought a Hashlight to disprove my ghost theories. I l

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Over fda jUOPg .jcgff When I was fourteen, I started singing in the church choir. I was the youngest of the twenty members. We wore straight black robes and dazzling white cottas that flared out in every direction land flattered no onej . Our procession inched down the middle aisle, singing the opening hymn. At three different intervals in our progress, our voluminous frocks puffed out like sails, from the hot air that rose from the iron-laced grates in the Hoor. VVhen we reached the rear door, we dashed through it into the marble foyer and passed through a doorway on the left that gaveadmit- tance to the spiral staircase and balcony above. Bits of decrepit plaster always sprinkled down, dislodged from old, old moldings as a result of our clattering feet and the powerful vibrations from the great pipe organ. After stepping across a short passageway and down a step or two, we found ourselves in the balcony. Once there, we seated ourselves on the chairs clustered about the organ console. We peered down at the unsus- pecting parishioners and criticized their hats. We waved to the restless tots who turned their faces up, apparently amazed that we were suddenly upstairs. The church interior was somber. Thick fluted columns supported the arched Gothic roof. Lantern-like lamps hung from the high ceiling, each supported by a sturdy iron chain. The church was tragically in need of repairs and the beautiful decorations were peeling off the wall in ma- roon Hakes. The altar seemedto possess a rainbow aura, especially when the sun streamed purple, green, and red through the kaleidoscopic windows. The rear wall consisted entirely of glass panels. The most appealing sight to me was the intricate pattern made by the moving feet of the organist. They always seemed to know exactly where to go. The pedals themselves were arranged like immense piano keys. I couldn't see the keyboards from my position, but once I leaned over and counted one, two, three, four of them. The piano has only one keyboard. I'd like to play upon the organ, I thought. I'd love to produce a booming that would cause loose plaster to rain, or to whisper a sound so still it would make the very air listen. After three years of wishing, my desire was fulfilled. Since I was then taking piano lessons, I reasoned that there wouldn't be time for both pi- ano and organ instruction. The piano lessons were regretfully dropped. No more would someone be standing over me, counting and tapping, noting all the sour notes, telling me to stop watching the clock, or remarking that surely I couldn't need another glass of water.

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Each day as soon as school was done, I hurried to the organ loft and practiced my dreary exercises. As I absorbed technique upon technique, a melody crept into my repertoire. I cherished this tune and repeated its simple strain, using different pipes every time. Once it was a mellow love song, in an instant, it was transformed to a plaintive lament, then to a triumphant bursting of joy. Eight weeks flew by, and Mr. Brown left on a two-month tour of Europe about the same time that summer vacation began. He gave me many, many pages from a big gray book to work on during the summer months. I practiced during the noon hours and again toward night time. The thick walls of the old structure barred the season's heat waves. A number of friends came inside with me to listen, they said, but really, I suspect, to escape the summer weather. Came September and I knew the assigned pages to perfection. No more would I teeter and totter back and forth, searching for the pedal notes. No more did the chords seem choppy and disconnected. All the phrases seemed smooth and polished to me. I saw Mr. Brown on a September Saturday and arranged to begin lessons Friday afternoon. I practiced now with fervor. The hour came at last. Cheeks aglow, I made the ascent up the stairs, good-naturedly scuifed oif my loafers and slipped into the black, old-ladyish oxfords whose raised heel gave my anklet-clad leg a slightly rakish appearance. The last minute practicing almost made, me forget the time. He's Eve minutes late. Perhaps his dinner was delayed. Ten minutes slipped by. My enthusiasm waned. VVhen a quarter of an hour had gone, I descended into the center way. Footsteps were clearly audible. Why are you so late? I asked. W'hatza matter here? cackled a gruff voice. It was the sexton. Have you seen Mr. Brown? Didn't ya hear? He was walkin' on Main Street, when smack! a cab knocks him down Hat as flat can be. He's laid up for at least six weeks with a broken kneecap - may never be able to play again. Slowly I went upstairs. I turned off the powerful motor, slid once more into my loafers, put out the lights, and walked home, with my sedate, black oxfords dangling by their laces at my side. fP.S. - Mr. Brown did recover and did feel that my summer's work had not been in vain.j . MERRILL SKRAMOVSKY, ' 50 ullluq