WHAT’S LEFT OUT COUNTS
CurryforAmerica.com
I had enlisted in the U.S. Army as a private to fight in the Korean War. After the war was over I intended to get out of the Army and use the GI Bill to go to college and become a teacher. But one day an Army Education Counselor changed all that.
Since the University of Maryland was offering college courses at night on the base where I was stationed, he suggested that I take a few courses and get a leg up on college. It seemed reasonable and years later I found myself still working full time for the army during the day and going to college at night.
Many times over the years I had been warned, or was it threatened, that all my college credits earned at different universities around the world would be subjected to a rigorous culling out should I ever amass enough credits to qualify for a degree. Courses the admission’s counselor decided to leave out sometimes counted the most. So over the years I had taken only core courses such as economics, mathematics and history instead of fun courses like “Basket Weaving 101.”
Eventually my family and I were posted to Fort Devens, Massachusetts. When I briefed the education counselor on what I had been doing for the past seven years, he said I had more than enough credits to qualify for a degree and now was the time to “close the sale.” He also said he didn’t know anyone who’d been successful doing what I was trying to do.
But he suggested that I visit the local universities situated along the banks of the Charles River starting with Harvard. I couldn’t imagine Harvard accepting my smorgasbord of credits so that didn’t seem to make much sense to me. But he said we needed to know how high the wall really was that I was trying to climb over and a visit to Harvard would lay it out clearly. He was right.
The admissions officer at Harvard summed up my situation this way. “You are a quality applicant and we would very much like to have you study with us. Of course we do have a certain position to maintain.” He smiled warmly. “You do see the problem we have here, don’t you? Our graduates are expected to have the University’s ‘stamp’ on them. That can’t be done in less than three years. You do understand?”
Yes, I did understand, but that didn’t solve my problem. Harvard had a tradition to uphold. I had a degree to complete. Farther down river Boston University felt that it could place its “stamp” on me in two years. Other universities I visited felt about the same.
One day the indefatigable education counselor phoned, “Jerry, much of the week I’ve been on the phone talking to other Army education counselors around the country.” He paused waiting for our thoughts to synchronize. “Several of them suggest that you apply to the University of Nebraska in Omaha.”
“Never heard of it,” I mumbled.
“Neither have I but I checked it out. It’s a small city university that has a good academic standing and is interested in talking to you.”
“Way out in Nebraska. That means I’d have to leave a pregnant wife alone with two small children,”l protested.
“When you’re a squirrel and you’re out of acorns, any nut will do,” he concluded.
Directly across the Missouri River from Council Bluffs, Iowa lies Omaha, Nebraska. In 1959 it was an overly large, delightful cow town with a huge stock yard at its south end. Dodge Avenue ran through its center from east to west. It had a first rate art museum, the Joslyn, and it boasted of having the only symphony in America operating in the black.
The summer of 1960 I graduated from the University of Nebraska, Omaha (UNO). Ten years later, through night school, I earned an MA from Boston University in International Relations. Several years later I added, again through night school, a Doctor of Ministry from Luther Rice Seminary and University.
In addition to carrying 19 credits that first semester at UNO, once a week I moonlighted as a DJ at a local radio station, KBON. The sports announcer there was also the local jazz buff who knew most of the local area musicians. Occasionally after the commercial establishments closed, the side-men gravitated over to Don’s house to jam.
Only one restaurant/night club in Omaha consistently booked big name entertainment, “Orlando’s.” This week the word was out that after the Saturday night gigs, there would be jamming at Don’s and the Oscar Peterson Trio would hold forth. Oscar was a co-founder of the Berkley School of jazz Music in Boston.
The place was crowded long before Oscar and company arrived. In those days every metropolitan area had its local version of what a jazz pianist should be. A classically trained pianist, Eddy was just waiting to be discovered, and he hoped Oscar would do the honors. To pay the rent, Eddy played jazz piano in a hotel basement cocktail lounge.
Propped with his back against a wall, his face full of wonder, he watched Oscar work the keyboard. Occasionally Oscar looked up and their eyes met. Finally Oscar motioned him over, slid his huge frame up off the bench and said, “It’s your turn, Man ... Show us what you can do.”
Eddy had been waiting for many years for just such a chance. He took a deep breath, exhaled and went for it. Nimble, quick and practiced, Eddy’s fingers flicked all over the keyboard. Every note on the piano was fair game. By any measurement, it was a virtuoso performance. With a flourish his fingers swept through a last, long, complicated run.
The spontaneous applause must have been gratifying. Like a child knowing he has pleased his parents, with great expectancy Eddy turned to Oscar for approval. Oscar eased his considerable weight back onto the bench and said, “Technically, you’re perfect … If you ever learn what to leave out, you’ll be a real musician. Don’t try to play it all, only what’s necessary. No one can teach you that, you’ve got to feel it … inside.”
Disappointment clouded Eddy’s face though Oscar had shared with him one of life’s great truths. We can’t live it all -- or do it all. Priorities have to be set. Success is often determined by what we leave out or choose not to do at all.
Since then, whether practicing the art of war, giving a political speech, painting a landscape, or singing an operatic aria, all of which I have done, I remember Oscar’s admonition and often times measure my success by what I leave out. Clutter, excess and overwork muddies a painting or a line of music as surely as it does a line or reasoning.