Boulder, Colorado

      Obscenely early September Saturday morning.  Donning a band uniform that I will wear for the next sixteen hours.  Plenty of Kleenex in one pocket, meal money in another. 

      Join the group loading instruments and finding a seat on the waiting school bus.  The three-hour bus ride broken up by a stop at a truck stop somewhere for breakfast.

     Dismounting the bus, we grabbed instrument cases, assembled them, crammed empty cases back on the bus and assembled in some formation where we would warm up our marching skills getting to the parade starting point.  Then we waited.

      As one of the smallest bands, it was always fascinating to watch the other bands, especially the big ones who would have a drum major in a tall hat carrying a scepter, followed by a huge banner bearing school name and mascot carried by a bunch of pretty girls, with a row of twirlers, also pretty, skimpily dressed, followed by a huge band with a row of bass drums and a row of snare drums (as opposed to our one bass drum and two snare drummers). 

     Eventually, our turn to fall in line would come and we would fall into formation, spread our lines across the street to try to make us look larger than we were, and do our best to make as much noise as the bigger bands when we got the signal to play.

      One time, we left earlier than usual so we could reach Boulder before 9:10 a.m. to “maneuver”.  We were in our grand finale rotation on the field when the horn warned us we were about out of time.  Abruptly we turned as the drum majorette blew three whistle blasts and pointed her baton toward the sideline.  Our lines melted as we hurried to exit the field.  We didn’t score very well on maneuvering, I think. 

       After marching a dozen or so blocks and playing our selected march two or three times, we broke ranks and followed the college students directing our way that would send us single file through a line where we were handed a sack lunch with a sandwich, chips and an apple.  After a lunch break, once again we would be directed by college students to Folsom Field where we were seated in a group among other bands.

      CU football wasn’t all that much in those days, though we were familiar with the team from listening to John Henry call the play-by-play on KOA radio.  A band day was the first time I ever heard of the Eugene Oregon Ducks.  “Ducks?”  Really?

     At half time, all the bands seated in the stadium joined the CU Marching band on the field in playing two songs, “Glory, Glory Colorado” and “Fight CU” which Mr. Sager insisted on pronouncing “Fight Que”.  The band directors tried many strategies to get all the bands on the same tempo.  I don’t remember any of them succeeding.  Some bands always finished before the CU band, and some ended after the CU band had put down their instruments.

     After half time we were free to wander around.  We could take our instruments to the bus and not be burdened with them for the first time since arrival. Eventually, we would once again mount the bus and edge our way through the heavy traffic towards home.

    We would stop at a White Spot in Aurora or some such fashionable eatery for our supper before the final leg of our journey.  It was the custom to try to pair up with a girl for the ride home in the dark.  I was never very successful in that endeavor, but it did add spice to the end of the day, a very long day at that, by the time we reached home and removed the band uniform that had to be dry-cleaned.

      My association with Boulder would include a week at Boys’ State, but we were closely confined to campus, leaving only to be bussed to the state house in Denver for a day of mock government.  Once out of high school, I would have no association with Boulder until I was married, after which I had Aunt Yvonne.

      Aunt Yvonne lived in Boulder, so we called on her two or three times a year.  It was during this time that I got the unfavorable impression that Boulder was filled with a superior people, who knew they were superior and expected me to know they were superior.  Aunt Yvonne had nothing to do with my Boulder attitude.  She was always a gracious and interesting host.  It was a parking ticket while browsing downtown that cemented my negative feelings about the place.

    I vowed never to buy anything or support the place in any way.  Anyone who has visited the city lately will know that my one-man boycott has been devastating—devastating to the place!

     Aunt Yvonne cooperated with my embargo by moving to a small farm north of Longmont.  I would not have to set foot in the Boulder again. 

     Well, there were two slight exceptions.  We did attend a Boulder Dinner Theatre performance once.  Then I had to attend, with two fellow teachers, a one-day Advanced Placement clinic on campus when we began offering Advanced-Placement classes at our Kansas high school.  I convinced the girls, my fellow A-P faculty colleagues, to wait till we got to Broomfield before we stopped at a mall on our way back to Kansas.

      This spring, Boulder crept back into my life, the first occasion, sadly, Aunt Yvonne’s memorial service.  The parking experience brought it all back to life, finding a place to park, wrestling with the machine to get it to take our credit card so as not to get another parking ticket.  We celebrated Aunt Yvonne’s life, then left Boulder. 

     Boulder didn’t leave me.  Barbershop kept Boulder in my life.  Our quartet bass’s granddaughter runs a dance studio in that city.  For the past few years, she has put on a dance program she calls “Murmuration.”  The term seems to refer to a flock  of birds who dart, climb, dive in the same direction at the same time, like a troupe of dancers in the air.  Sara’s aim is to involve as many diverse groups as possible.     

     Two years ago, Sara did a solo routine as her grandfather’s barbershop quartet sang.  This year, Sara invited the quartet to sing again, but we would be singing for a group of nine dancers this time.

     There was a problem.  Barbershop singers are rhythmically challenged.  The time value of notes means little or nothing to the singers.  Dancing to such unrhythmic accompaniment would be possible for a solo dancer who could adapt, but for a troupe trying to stick together and follow the music?

     Sara and Rex worked out a medley of “When I’m 64”, “Aura Lee” and “Love Me Tender” for us to sing and “Backbones” to dance to.  We sent a video of us singing the medley, but we needed a live rehearsal to cement things.  So on a Sunday afternoon preceding the Saturday show, off we went to Boulder to Sara’s dance studio to rehearse.  We spent two hours watching the girls rehearse their routine. We sang as we watched them dance and both groups got a feeling for the other groups’ performance.  It was fun.

     On Sunday we arrived at the performance venue, the auditorium at Chautauqua Park at the foot of the flatirons, at 1 p.m.  As at band days, we spent the day in full regalia, white shoes, white pants, white shirts with armbands, red and white striped vests, red bow ties and flat straw hats.      

     As we left the car and headed for the auditorium, two of the Backbones, the dance troupe, ran into the street to meet us.  The two young ladies greeted us, told us how great we looked, how excited they were to be on stage with us, how good we sounded.  Their effusive greeting set the stage upon which we would tread the rest of the day and into the night.

      When we stood in front of the mic’s so the sound and light people could adjust for our appearance, the other performers cheered our warm ups.  (There were probably close to 100 performers including all the dance troupes and their accompanists, including a drum band from Montbello High School.)  Everywhere we went, we got complimented on our uniforms, our sound, for agreeing to take part in the program. 

     Between technical and dress rehearsal, we snuck off to do a little rehearsing for another upcoming performance.  Young folks (we were by far the oldest of the performers) came by and snapped pictures of us.  Others asked to have their picture taken with us!

     After dress rehearsal, we had a half an hour before the taco supper provided by Sara for all the performers (a lot of people to serve!), so we headed to the nearby restaurant for a bit of refreshment.  I thought I ordered an O’Doul’s, because I didn’t want any alcohol before I had to perform, but what I ordered was an O’Dell’s.  Oh well, I relaxed. 

     We sang two or three numbers to the restaurant patrons and were well received there, too.  It was just that kind of day. 

     After ingesting our tacos, we sang a song to Sara.  More compliments, more pictures.  We were next to last on the show, so we watched from the back seats.  During the intermission when the house lights came on, we were flattered by audience folks telling us they were looking forward to hearing us sing. 

     About three numbers before we were up, Sara took us up behind the auditorium for a group picture and a pre-performance pep talk not unlike a coach gives his players before the start of the game.   We grouped into a circle, joined hands at the circle center and shouted a “Let’s Go!” type cheer, the exact words of which I don’t remember.  We were pumped.

      The Backbones preceded us on stage and stood at attention in position as we entered.  The crowd cheered.  We sang, they danced, the crowd cheered, standing this time.  We knew it was for the dancers who had superbly followed our accompaniment.  But we knew it was for us too.

      After the show was over, we stood outside meeting Sara’s family.  We were complimented by strangers, asked to pose for pictures with some of them.  It was all overwhelming. 

       Some serious flaws were beginning to appear in my Boulder attitude.  I have sung for all kinds of audiences in my thirty years in barbershop, most of them appreciative audiences.  Never have I had this kind of adulation heaped upon me.  As our evening wound down, all four of us expressed our wonder at the day we had. 

     With the adrenalin flowing, it was hard to relax.  We had a few songs left in us.  We were hungry and thirsty again.  We needed to savor the day a little longer.

      Even the pub patrons where we stopped complimented us when we sang for them.  We waited until Longmont to stop to eat and to celebrate our jewel of a day.