My first real music teacher, Rufus Brown, died this week. Thanks to Mark for telling me about it.

After my dad died (and after a somewhat ridiculous legal battle with my stepmother), I inherited his favorite guitar, the one my mom bought him as a wedding present. My dad was a blues guitarist/musician, so the guitar was really important to him. It was the summer before fifth grade when my mom signed me up for guitar lessons at Hix, which was then somewhere out in North Aurora. Rufus was the one who took me on. My mom says that she chose him because, judging by his name, he was probably some big black man who could teach me how to play 'dem blues. Actually, he was a skinny, 25-year-old white guy who encouraged me to play classical guitar.

He always told me I was his favorite student. In retrospect, I realize he was probably just saying that to keep me from getting disheartened at my lack of skill at the guitar, but at the time, it made me feel wonderful. I have never had a teacher who has made me feel so good about myself.

My mother read about it before I did. She said it was the most tragic thing she had ever heard in her life. I have to agree with her. For someone so vibrant and passionate about EVERYTHING, for such a doting father and such a loving husband (these qualities were apparent even from my relatively distant student's viewpoint), to die so young, is absolutely heartbreaking. His little girls lost one of the most caring fathers I have ever known.

I am a remarkably self-centered person, but for some reason I felt compelled to get a card for his wife (whom I've never met). I broke down in the card isle at Dominick's. Here's the card I found:

Outside: A life well-lived doesn't end any more than music ends...
It echoes through time with whispers of beauty and grace.
Inside: If we listen, we can hear the encore with our hearts, for the song plays on just as love lives on.
With deepest sympathy for your loss.

I always had this idea in my head that after I graduated from college, or after I was well-established in my career, or after I had something or other substantial to show for myself, I would track Rufus down and thank him. I would let him know the impact he had on my own decision to become a music teacher. I would ask him for advice. I would reconnect. Later. Somehow, as always seems to happen with me, my own petty little life became more important, and now I've lost the chance to tell him what a wonderful teacher he was. I certainly intend to tell his wife, but it's not quite the same.

You all know what a cynical bitch I am. You all know how much I despise cliches. So take heed, that's all the more reason to listen to what I am about to say:

Don't wait until the last minute to thank those who have helped you out or made you happy. You never know when it will be too late.





Note: Clicking on the link at the top of this post is supposed to get you to Rufus' obituary, but you have to erase all the blogger/fencepost stuff surrounding the URL. I don't know enough about html to get rid of it myself.

posted at 12:30 AM by Alison

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