By Diane Archer Bradbury
I was in the first grade the year George Beggs began teaching in the Cedar Vale school system. The Beggs family consisted of George (or G.A.), wife Madge and Madge’s twin brothers, Ronnie and Donnie Warren, who were also in the first grade. The twins were being raised by George and Madge because their parents had died. Eventually the Beggs also raised Roger and Joyce Warren, both younger than the twins. I have so much respect for them raising these four little kids. Later, they had their own daughter, Georgia.
My first experience in band was playing snare drum in fourth grade. By sixth grade I was playing in the high school band along with a friend and fellow drummer, Susan Alexander. The other drummers were Donna Burch and Nadine Stanhope and Susan and I admired these high school girls so much - a true case of hero worship.
About my 8th grade year I asked my parents for a saxophone as I was getting bored with playing drum music. Since my parents, Opal and Fred Archer, knew the Beggs, they asked if there was a need for more saxophones in the band. There was not. End of story.
But wait. In the fall of my freshman year, Mr. Beggs came to band practice one morning carrying a large music instrument case. After showing me the most beautiful, brand new baritone saxophone, he asked if I would like to play it. I was so thrilled that I wasn’t concerned about its size, for in my joy it was not heavy or bulky or cumbersome. At the Christmas concert that year I played a solo, “Parade of the Wooden Soldiers” and I realize now Mr. Beggs wanted the community and especially the school board to see what their money bought.
Mr. Beggs was one of, if not the first band teacher in our area to start a stage or dance band. This was right down my alley as I enjoyed the old standards and big band songs and played a lot of popular music on the piano at home. Our arrangements were what is referred to as “standard arrangements”, some fairly easy and some very challenging. I asked Mr. Beggs to try to find an arrangement of “Night Train” as done by Buddy Morrow, featuring the bari sax. I know he tried, but it was not to be.
Our high school vocal music program was taught by Mr. Beggs for several years though I’m sure it was not something he yearned to do. We had a good choir and he enjoyed working with smaller ensembles. He also directed the church choir at the Methodist church in which I sang alto and occasionally substituted playing the piano and/or the organ. I never felt needed in the alto section as there was one lady, Vera Sheldon, who was there to be heard.
There were three in my class who had a strong interest in music, Patsy Kelly, Barbara Woodruff and me. Mr. Beggs decided to teach a class in music fundamentals our senior year, 1958-1959. This was a freshman college level class and included learning to write four part harmony, etc. It was just another special thing Mr. Beggs did for the benefit of what he considered his advanced students. Or maybe it was the three of us who considered ourselves advanced. This was Mr. Beggs’ last year teaching in Cedar Vale and I felt so grateful that he was there for our twelve years.
What lucky high school students we were to have had the influence of Mr. Beggs. He had our respect; we would have done anything for him. He was even tempered, had high expectations of his students and worked hard to provide an excellent band for Cedar Vale High School, which was known over the years for it’s superior music program. The pride of Cedar Vale!
After marriage and two children I divorced and moved to Winfield where I pursued a music education degree at Southwestern College. I graduated, remarried and was offered a job teaching vocal music in the Oxford school district. This was a positive experience and provided me with many good memories.
My oldest son plays trumpet and is teaching a jazz combo class at Friends University as well as playing in the Friends Faculty Combo. I give Mr. Beggs some credit even for his expertise though they’ve never met. Surely my influence counts for something and a great deal of my knowledge and inspiration came from Mr. Beggs.........I can hear him now playing his rendition of “Sugar Blues.”
Saturday, November 3, 2007
A Note from Your Administrator
Blogs are sometimes subject to spamming, just as our email is. From time to time you may see something totally extraneous to the purpose of our blog come up for a short time and disappear. That is your administrator at work. I've had to do very little of this cleaning so far, and if it becomes oppressive I have restrictions that I can put on the blog as to who can post and who can read. I've chosen to leave the door as open as possible and it has worked fairly well so far.
Another issue that sometimes comes up on blogs is what is known as "flaming." That is a response that attacks another blogger and is considered the poorest of "netiquette." I have seen absolutely none of that, but if it were to show up I can delete it and if it were to continue I can uninvite contributors.
On a similar note, we are coming into the next election cycle and if previous elections are any indication, this one will be bitter and divisive. I'm sure that we all will be supporting candidates and donating our time and money to their election. I am stating my firm intention to keep this blog an "election-free" zone. Posts that are in support of candidates or posts that defame any of the candidates will not be tolerated. Posts that deal directly with the political parties are also out.
One other area of concern is forwarding of materials from other sources. My email is sometimes filled with forwarded stuff and I delete it without reading it. I will do the same for other forwarded material on the blog. One exception is when someone who is unlikely to be a regular contributor sends me something that I think will be specifically of interest to the group. I will forward that to the blog, but I want people to put up their own posts so I am actively discouraging the practice of sending me stuff to be put up. Put up your own posts!
With this said, I hope you all continue to enjoy our exchanges and will feel free to contribute. I'm having fun with this and hope you are too.
Another issue that sometimes comes up on blogs is what is known as "flaming." That is a response that attacks another blogger and is considered the poorest of "netiquette." I have seen absolutely none of that, but if it were to show up I can delete it and if it were to continue I can uninvite contributors.
On a similar note, we are coming into the next election cycle and if previous elections are any indication, this one will be bitter and divisive. I'm sure that we all will be supporting candidates and donating our time and money to their election. I am stating my firm intention to keep this blog an "election-free" zone. Posts that are in support of candidates or posts that defame any of the candidates will not be tolerated. Posts that deal directly with the political parties are also out.
One other area of concern is forwarding of materials from other sources. My email is sometimes filled with forwarded stuff and I delete it without reading it. I will do the same for other forwarded material on the blog. One exception is when someone who is unlikely to be a regular contributor sends me something that I think will be specifically of interest to the group. I will forward that to the blog, but I want people to put up their own posts so I am actively discouraging the practice of sending me stuff to be put up. Put up your own posts!
With this said, I hope you all continue to enjoy our exchanges and will feel free to contribute. I'm having fun with this and hope you are too.
Thursday, November 1, 2007
Time Machine
By Gary White
Do you remember the comic strip Alley Oop from our youth? Dr. Elbert Wonmug had a time machine that brought Alley and all his friends into the 20th century, or 20th century folk back to the stone age. Far fetched you say? Wait a minute CV friends.
Just today Wayne and I were blogging (that’s what we do these days) about Judy Gorton, a common friend from KU days. Then Wayne wrote about “little Nadine Foster” and Nadine came clearly into my memory just as I remember her—no bigger than a minute and faster than greased lightning. Judy Gorton exists in my memory as that 20-year-old beauty, with dewy complexion and a smile that would melt any young man’s heart. Dick Williams is still that slim, blond youth that I last saw at CVHS graduation. These folks still exist, just as they were back then even though they must be in their 60s or even 70 by now. Is that a time machine or what? Our time machine is our memories and that’s why I’m having so much fun bringing all the past back and hearing all your stories. Keep the time machine going friends. Dr. Wonmug has nothing on us!
Real Heroes Never Die
Real heroes live forever, at least in the mind and heart. The dictionary says a hero is a person who is an ideal or a model. I remember back to 1943 and the heroes of a six year old boy. No, they were not Ted Williams nor Stan Musial; they would come later. At that time Ted Williams was flying Marine fighter planes and as a six year old, I did not even know of him yet. My heroes could have been Bill Mauldin, the New Mexico cartoonist who created G.I. Joe and Sad Sack for the daily papers, or Ernie Pyle who lived in the trenches with the soldiers fighting in Germany, France, or the Philippines and giving us all the details of the battles. My heroes could have been Roy Smith, who could pitch a baseball faster than Nolan Ryan or Walter Johnson; or Grant Utt, who could hit the baseball farther than Babe Ruth. These people I have mentioned were all "ideals" or "models" of sorts, but they did not meet my immediate criteria, for they are all dead. And as I said at the beginning, real heroes live forever and never die.
So as a six year old, my heroes did not play on a baseball field in Boston, nor write war articles from the battlefields of France, and I did not even know Roy Smith and Grant Utt at that time. No, my heroes lived right across the street from my house and were both only six years older than I; but in the eyes of this six year old, they were both models and ideals. They provided inspiration, entertainment and fascination, and the thing that really made them heroes in the viewpoint of the six and seven year old boys in the neighborhood was the fact that they were kind enough to us little fellows to spend their time with us. How many twelve year olds today will do that??
Don Cox lived directly across from our house and Maurice Jones lived next door to him. I don' t know about the Jones boy, but Don Cox still lives, so along with the attributes mentioned above, he was my real hero.
Don and Maurice had set up the most wonderful "airplane" cockpit on the front porch of the Jones house and under the supervision of the two older boys, we little ones were allowed to "fly" the plane. They had taken a large cardboard box, cut it to the shape of an airplane instrument panel and using their compasses and protractors had drawn life-size, lifelike instrument gauges on the cardboard. Then chairs were placed appropriately so the pilot and co-pilot could fly the plane to far away destinations. They probably had more fun watching the excitement of the little kids than the fun they experienced in making the mock-up for themselves.
One evening little Jackie and Jim Foster and little Bobbie Hays and Nadine Foster and probably a few other town kids were playing in the vacant lot beside our house when Maurice Jones came running up and said we should come with him. He had something to show us. So we all dropped out bats and balls and started running after him as he headed for the old Episcopal church in the next block. As we approached, he began to look frightened, and asked us to follow him but to make no noise or something bad might happen. So, we quietly followed him as he drew near to the ground level windows that looked down into the darkened basement of the spooky old church. He carefully placed two or three of us at each of the windows and again cautioned us to be very quiet. But, then a frightening screaming, moaning sound came from the depths of the basement and an eerie flashing light revealed a sheet-covered apparition reaching out to children, beckoning them down into that dungeon. Maurice screamed, "Run" and run we did, all the way back to our homes, and I imagine Don Cox is still laughing from that dark, dank cellar.
One day I was privileged to be invited up to Don's room to see his collection. He had the most fascinating group of model airplanes, in various stages of construction, scattered around the room. Some of the finished models were suspended by string from the ceiling. World War II fighters and bombers, Japanese dive bombers and Messerschmidt fighters, all carrying on their aerial battles from the ceiling of Don's room. These were the old balsa wood models, covered with tissue paper and hand decorated. I was entralled, and immediately ran home and started begging my parents to buy me a model plane. When they did, probably only about 50 cents, I found that it was much easier for a twelve year old to build one of those models, than for a six year old. As I would glue one end of the tiny balsa sticks to the fuselage support, the other previously glued end would pop loose, and then the tissue paper would tear and so it went.. I never finished that plane, but I never told my hero.
Those two heroes could also do magical things in communication. I will never forget watching Maurice Jones standing on the "widow's walk" atop the Cox's house, dressed in his Scout uniform, and Don Cox standing on the roof of Grandma Cox's house way across town, also dressed in that elegant uniform. They could visualize each other over the tops of the trees and using their semaphore flags, they sent important messages over houses, probably to save the life of some damsel in distress. I became of Boy Scout years later because of the example set by those two heroes. Unfortunately, I found that being a Boy Scout was really not that exciting, but there were some good times.
So, I do not know the whereabouts of Maurice Jones, but Don Cox, my other hero, still lives in Cedar Vale and has evolved into a 265 pound gentleman who rides the streets of town on an electric scooter, and I am sure he is still bringing inspiration to all who know him now, just as he did sixty-four years ago. He will always be a hero ( as long as he lives).
So as a six year old, my heroes did not play on a baseball field in Boston, nor write war articles from the battlefields of France, and I did not even know Roy Smith and Grant Utt at that time. No, my heroes lived right across the street from my house and were both only six years older than I; but in the eyes of this six year old, they were both models and ideals. They provided inspiration, entertainment and fascination, and the thing that really made them heroes in the viewpoint of the six and seven year old boys in the neighborhood was the fact that they were kind enough to us little fellows to spend their time with us. How many twelve year olds today will do that??
Don Cox lived directly across from our house and Maurice Jones lived next door to him. I don' t know about the Jones boy, but Don Cox still lives, so along with the attributes mentioned above, he was my real hero.
Don and Maurice had set up the most wonderful "airplane" cockpit on the front porch of the Jones house and under the supervision of the two older boys, we little ones were allowed to "fly" the plane. They had taken a large cardboard box, cut it to the shape of an airplane instrument panel and using their compasses and protractors had drawn life-size, lifelike instrument gauges on the cardboard. Then chairs were placed appropriately so the pilot and co-pilot could fly the plane to far away destinations. They probably had more fun watching the excitement of the little kids than the fun they experienced in making the mock-up for themselves.
One evening little Jackie and Jim Foster and little Bobbie Hays and Nadine Foster and probably a few other town kids were playing in the vacant lot beside our house when Maurice Jones came running up and said we should come with him. He had something to show us. So we all dropped out bats and balls and started running after him as he headed for the old Episcopal church in the next block. As we approached, he began to look frightened, and asked us to follow him but to make no noise or something bad might happen. So, we quietly followed him as he drew near to the ground level windows that looked down into the darkened basement of the spooky old church. He carefully placed two or three of us at each of the windows and again cautioned us to be very quiet. But, then a frightening screaming, moaning sound came from the depths of the basement and an eerie flashing light revealed a sheet-covered apparition reaching out to children, beckoning them down into that dungeon. Maurice screamed, "Run" and run we did, all the way back to our homes, and I imagine Don Cox is still laughing from that dark, dank cellar.
One day I was privileged to be invited up to Don's room to see his collection. He had the most fascinating group of model airplanes, in various stages of construction, scattered around the room. Some of the finished models were suspended by string from the ceiling. World War II fighters and bombers, Japanese dive bombers and Messerschmidt fighters, all carrying on their aerial battles from the ceiling of Don's room. These were the old balsa wood models, covered with tissue paper and hand decorated. I was entralled, and immediately ran home and started begging my parents to buy me a model plane. When they did, probably only about 50 cents, I found that it was much easier for a twelve year old to build one of those models, than for a six year old. As I would glue one end of the tiny balsa sticks to the fuselage support, the other previously glued end would pop loose, and then the tissue paper would tear and so it went.. I never finished that plane, but I never told my hero.
Those two heroes could also do magical things in communication. I will never forget watching Maurice Jones standing on the "widow's walk" atop the Cox's house, dressed in his Scout uniform, and Don Cox standing on the roof of Grandma Cox's house way across town, also dressed in that elegant uniform. They could visualize each other over the tops of the trees and using their semaphore flags, they sent important messages over houses, probably to save the life of some damsel in distress. I became of Boy Scout years later because of the example set by those two heroes. Unfortunately, I found that being a Boy Scout was really not that exciting, but there were some good times.
So, I do not know the whereabouts of Maurice Jones, but Don Cox, my other hero, still lives in Cedar Vale and has evolved into a 265 pound gentleman who rides the streets of town on an electric scooter, and I am sure he is still bringing inspiration to all who know him now, just as he did sixty-four years ago. He will always be a hero ( as long as he lives).
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