Former Students Remember Miss Helen Garlington
Singing for Helen
By Roger Held
To sum a life, what someone has been to us, done for us, is not possible. Persons come into to our lives largely by accident; perhaps we’re randomly plunked into their seventh grade music class. They pay attention to us for seemingly no particular reason. They share with us something they love and do well. They share some small part of themselves, enough that we can see the person inside the social role they play. They freely give us opportunities we didn’t know we wanted. They teach us things we never realized we needed. When we’re about to do something truly stupid, they find the right few words to whisper into the phone on a metaphorically dark and stormy night.
In a particular way, I owe my life, my way of being, my way of engaging the world to Helen. Odd to think of her as Helen, a person, rather than Miss Garlington, the person depersonalized. Always a distance there but not wholly a bad thing, perhaps a heighten sense of differing generational perspectives.
I remember a story she told me. It was the only time I remember her speaking of one of her other lives. During the Second World War, she was a Red Cross worker in England. She had a beau then, a flyer, fighter pilot, flew p-51s I imagine. As we stood behind the piano at the front of the classroom, she spoke about the dream she had the night he died. She saw him struggling to open the canopy while the flames from the engine swept past. Others on the mission reported, they last saw his burning plane falling with the canopy stuck partially open. He was unable to escape. I have no idea why she told me that story out of the blue. Nothing in particular seemed to prompt it. It was one of those moments when a person needs to tell a story for themselves, to hear themselves say it. In a way, perhaps, it doesn’t matter who is listening. There it was, going on twenty years after the event. I never forgot it, a summing image of a defining moment in a passed life, much as I now have about Viet Nam. In a passing conversation, she offered me a glimpse into the world of grown-ups, a complexity, a richness I had never imagined existed.
In those years between, she had learned to live with aloneness. She knew the difference between being lonely and the state of being alone in our heads as we all are and cannot otherwise be. The essential aloneness is a necessary respite from the bustle around us. Being lonely is a temporary state usually accompanied by depression. Her advice was to be wary of taking actions to avoid being lonely as such acts are usually mistakes that “set you a windin’ (first i is long sound),” in your head and lead to unhappiness. She had a personal strength, a determination to live her life in a particular way she had decided upon; a quality I have come to admire greatly.
She was an Old School idealist. For her, and likely her generation, America was an idea. Though imperfect in execution, the egalitarian end was to be held separate and in a way sacred. The office was to be respected even if the office holder was not worthy. We seem to have lost this distinction as a society, and, so, we have lost the grounding that she had. Her point of view has provided me a balanced perspective.
As I think on it, Helen might well be a model of women I find attractive. Independent, self-directed but not self absorbed, honest, compassionate, out spoken but polite in a direct way, capable of cutting to the bottom line of a matter and feminine. Women, who embrace their gender as part of their identity, and do not see that as lessening them. They enjoy being, who they are. Certainly, she influenced my ability to select gifts of clothing for women. That has been a hedge against disaster. Helen had an aesthetic sense about her appearance. She always looked a little like she was in a movie, the stylish and simple cut of her dresses, the subtlety of color and decorative accouterments, all arranged without seeming so. She had a sense of the theatrical in life.
Her gift outright was music, particularly singing. I have never been musician as my wife and eldest son are. I feel music; I’m not much interested in the mechanics. Tenors are noted for not being able to count to four and sometimes eight. We get lost in the music and hold the perfect note until we turn blue. I sang in college and in the St Michael Episcopal Choir for money. Seventeen dollars a week provided meals and gas in those days. So, she gave me a survival skill. I still sing on car trips, still some of the songs Helen taught me. We sang to both our boys after bedtime stories as they nodded off for the night. Enduring a migraine with the lights out in the emergency room cubicle, my wife asked me to sing her the “the forest song,” a quiet, haunting minor key piece. So Helen improved the quality of our lives together in a way she likely never imagined. We are closer, kinder, and gentler with each other because of music shared.
Music led to theatre and theatre to a way of life and a means of understanding the world, the patterns of lives and events around me, and an insight into characters, into people. I was so ignorant when I began; I had to be told I had “the lead.” To me, it was just a lot of lines. I still think of parts that way not as “leads,” more important than “supporting” but as some having more lines than others. That’s like Helen too; creating ensemble was the foundation of music and theatre. She taught us to value, to admire the talents, skills, and personal qualities of those with whom we sang, worked, and lived.
We don’t usually push our boys into things, but do insist they finish what they start, and when they move on that they do so with a sense of Garlington style. We have shoved them into choir, where neither wanted to go. The oldest now has a music scholarship to sing in his college choir, and he sort of plays cello and piano, each an avocation to be grown. The other is the choir zany; he’s the baritone in the front row with the pink tie no one else has the intestinal fortitude to wear. He is the instigator of the men’s chorus singing, “Look on the Bright Side of Life,” complete with Monty Python kick line. Choir, music and theatre, is where they could find good friends who don’t forget you down the years of sundry travels. Where they found a teacher, Mrs. Campbell, who gets them summer work in an opera chorus and takes the choir, and all its alums who return for the holidays, caroling through our typical hundred inches of December snow, every year without fail. Without Helen, I wouldn’t have had the good sense, known the worth, and given the boys a good shove.
The least pleasant but perhaps most valuable lesson she taught me was: not lying to myself, not accepting my improved vision of who and how I was but to question my motivations for any action. That wasn’t always pleasant. It’s paradoxical. We can’t ever really know all of ourselves, yet who else is in a place to appraise our inner most thoughts. Helen always questioned my actions and motivations, demanded I tell myself the truth about them as best I could reason it. She was a taskmaster in this regard and gave no quarter for self-indulgence, least of all for doing the right things for the wrong reasons. This has been a tough assignment, and the best I can claim is maybe B. I’m thankful she and I have become forgiving of my short falls.
Singing for Helen allowed me to find a place in life and the world, an occupation, a lifestyle, a means of understanding and engaging society and other people and a lifetime of good memories of good people. I did well in school and tested well for work in the sciences, but, had I followed the advice of the test scores and grades, I’d be a rather mediocre scientist or, god save us, an engineer. Music and Helen provided me the opportunity to discover what I was, “really good at.” She empowered me to see possibilities beyond the hill culture of Pennsylvania and the vision of steel-town Detroit, and then, she set me free by getting me into university. Her shove set me on my own course in life and allowed me to shape myself into a better person than I might otherwise have become.
When I last spoke with her, some seven years ago now, she was as she always was. The years hadn’t come between. Mostly we spoke of singers; she had kept track of so many. She remained self possessed and steady in the face of aging and the world. That she expired between setting the tea water to heat and filling a cup, in the middle of doing something pleasurable and simply worthy seems appropriate, a passing we might all wish to embrace.
Not yet for me though. I have things yet to do, things to make happen, things Helen taught me to value and to champion. She is, and always will be, my teacher.
Miss Garlington the Humanitarian
She generally had kind words for me and my sister.....seemed she knew how unfun it was in our household..........plus singing,i loved it,and she continually promoted my participation.....even when i didn't have the proper clothes to wear to concerts,she saw to it along with Marcella Lafferty who played the piano, that I was color co-ordinated...........her strength and positive attitude has helped my perspective of our humanity............truly a humanitarian, Miss G, I will always remember fondly........... Joseph Parks
“The most wonderful teacher we ever had. “ Dorothy Bailey
I do remember Miss Garlington very well. I was in her class. I remember we had to do "auditions" (I think to see what our voice range was) and had to sing Merry Widow Waltz. I still remember all the words!! I googled her and saw her obits and the utube interview. I knew that she had done something during the war but wasn't quite sure what it was. I was surprised that no one mentioned Fred Waring and the Pennsylvanians. She used to go off to Pennsylvania during the summer break and sing with his band or group or whatever it was that he had back then. Joanne Gibbs
By Roger Held
To sum a life, what someone has been to us, done for us, is not possible. Persons come into to our lives largely by accident; perhaps we’re randomly plunked into their seventh grade music class. They pay attention to us for seemingly no particular reason. They share with us something they love and do well. They share some small part of themselves, enough that we can see the person inside the social role they play. They freely give us opportunities we didn’t know we wanted. They teach us things we never realized we needed. When we’re about to do something truly stupid, they find the right few words to whisper into the phone on a metaphorically dark and stormy night.
In a particular way, I owe my life, my way of being, my way of engaging the world to Helen. Odd to think of her as Helen, a person, rather than Miss Garlington, the person depersonalized. Always a distance there but not wholly a bad thing, perhaps a heighten sense of differing generational perspectives.
I remember a story she told me. It was the only time I remember her speaking of one of her other lives. During the Second World War, she was a Red Cross worker in England. She had a beau then, a flyer, fighter pilot, flew p-51s I imagine. As we stood behind the piano at the front of the classroom, she spoke about the dream she had the night he died. She saw him struggling to open the canopy while the flames from the engine swept past. Others on the mission reported, they last saw his burning plane falling with the canopy stuck partially open. He was unable to escape. I have no idea why she told me that story out of the blue. Nothing in particular seemed to prompt it. It was one of those moments when a person needs to tell a story for themselves, to hear themselves say it. In a way, perhaps, it doesn’t matter who is listening. There it was, going on twenty years after the event. I never forgot it, a summing image of a defining moment in a passed life, much as I now have about Viet Nam. In a passing conversation, she offered me a glimpse into the world of grown-ups, a complexity, a richness I had never imagined existed.
In those years between, she had learned to live with aloneness. She knew the difference between being lonely and the state of being alone in our heads as we all are and cannot otherwise be. The essential aloneness is a necessary respite from the bustle around us. Being lonely is a temporary state usually accompanied by depression. Her advice was to be wary of taking actions to avoid being lonely as such acts are usually mistakes that “set you a windin’ (first i is long sound),” in your head and lead to unhappiness. She had a personal strength, a determination to live her life in a particular way she had decided upon; a quality I have come to admire greatly.
She was an Old School idealist. For her, and likely her generation, America was an idea. Though imperfect in execution, the egalitarian end was to be held separate and in a way sacred. The office was to be respected even if the office holder was not worthy. We seem to have lost this distinction as a society, and, so, we have lost the grounding that she had. Her point of view has provided me a balanced perspective.
As I think on it, Helen might well be a model of women I find attractive. Independent, self-directed but not self absorbed, honest, compassionate, out spoken but polite in a direct way, capable of cutting to the bottom line of a matter and feminine. Women, who embrace their gender as part of their identity, and do not see that as lessening them. They enjoy being, who they are. Certainly, she influenced my ability to select gifts of clothing for women. That has been a hedge against disaster. Helen had an aesthetic sense about her appearance. She always looked a little like she was in a movie, the stylish and simple cut of her dresses, the subtlety of color and decorative accouterments, all arranged without seeming so. She had a sense of the theatrical in life.
Her gift outright was music, particularly singing. I have never been musician as my wife and eldest son are. I feel music; I’m not much interested in the mechanics. Tenors are noted for not being able to count to four and sometimes eight. We get lost in the music and hold the perfect note until we turn blue. I sang in college and in the St Michael Episcopal Choir for money. Seventeen dollars a week provided meals and gas in those days. So, she gave me a survival skill. I still sing on car trips, still some of the songs Helen taught me. We sang to both our boys after bedtime stories as they nodded off for the night. Enduring a migraine with the lights out in the emergency room cubicle, my wife asked me to sing her the “the forest song,” a quiet, haunting minor key piece. So Helen improved the quality of our lives together in a way she likely never imagined. We are closer, kinder, and gentler with each other because of music shared.
Music led to theatre and theatre to a way of life and a means of understanding the world, the patterns of lives and events around me, and an insight into characters, into people. I was so ignorant when I began; I had to be told I had “the lead.” To me, it was just a lot of lines. I still think of parts that way not as “leads,” more important than “supporting” but as some having more lines than others. That’s like Helen too; creating ensemble was the foundation of music and theatre. She taught us to value, to admire the talents, skills, and personal qualities of those with whom we sang, worked, and lived.
We don’t usually push our boys into things, but do insist they finish what they start, and when they move on that they do so with a sense of Garlington style. We have shoved them into choir, where neither wanted to go. The oldest now has a music scholarship to sing in his college choir, and he sort of plays cello and piano, each an avocation to be grown. The other is the choir zany; he’s the baritone in the front row with the pink tie no one else has the intestinal fortitude to wear. He is the instigator of the men’s chorus singing, “Look on the Bright Side of Life,” complete with Monty Python kick line. Choir, music and theatre, is where they could find good friends who don’t forget you down the years of sundry travels. Where they found a teacher, Mrs. Campbell, who gets them summer work in an opera chorus and takes the choir, and all its alums who return for the holidays, caroling through our typical hundred inches of December snow, every year without fail. Without Helen, I wouldn’t have had the good sense, known the worth, and given the boys a good shove.
The least pleasant but perhaps most valuable lesson she taught me was: not lying to myself, not accepting my improved vision of who and how I was but to question my motivations for any action. That wasn’t always pleasant. It’s paradoxical. We can’t ever really know all of ourselves, yet who else is in a place to appraise our inner most thoughts. Helen always questioned my actions and motivations, demanded I tell myself the truth about them as best I could reason it. She was a taskmaster in this regard and gave no quarter for self-indulgence, least of all for doing the right things for the wrong reasons. This has been a tough assignment, and the best I can claim is maybe B. I’m thankful she and I have become forgiving of my short falls.
Singing for Helen allowed me to find a place in life and the world, an occupation, a lifestyle, a means of understanding and engaging society and other people and a lifetime of good memories of good people. I did well in school and tested well for work in the sciences, but, had I followed the advice of the test scores and grades, I’d be a rather mediocre scientist or, god save us, an engineer. Music and Helen provided me the opportunity to discover what I was, “really good at.” She empowered me to see possibilities beyond the hill culture of Pennsylvania and the vision of steel-town Detroit, and then, she set me free by getting me into university. Her shove set me on my own course in life and allowed me to shape myself into a better person than I might otherwise have become.
When I last spoke with her, some seven years ago now, she was as she always was. The years hadn’t come between. Mostly we spoke of singers; she had kept track of so many. She remained self possessed and steady in the face of aging and the world. That she expired between setting the tea water to heat and filling a cup, in the middle of doing something pleasurable and simply worthy seems appropriate, a passing we might all wish to embrace.
Not yet for me though. I have things yet to do, things to make happen, things Helen taught me to value and to champion. She is, and always will be, my teacher.
Miss Garlington the Humanitarian
She generally had kind words for me and my sister.....seemed she knew how unfun it was in our household..........plus singing,i loved it,and she continually promoted my participation.....even when i didn't have the proper clothes to wear to concerts,she saw to it along with Marcella Lafferty who played the piano, that I was color co-ordinated...........her strength and positive attitude has helped my perspective of our humanity............truly a humanitarian, Miss G, I will always remember fondly........... Joseph Parks
“The most wonderful teacher we ever had. “ Dorothy Bailey
I do remember Miss Garlington very well. I was in her class. I remember we had to do "auditions" (I think to see what our voice range was) and had to sing Merry Widow Waltz. I still remember all the words!! I googled her and saw her obits and the utube interview. I knew that she had done something during the war but wasn't quite sure what it was. I was surprised that no one mentioned Fred Waring and the Pennsylvanians. She used to go off to Pennsylvania during the summer break and sing with his band or group or whatever it was that he had back then. Joanne Gibbs