“Three Gentlemen”
Ten years ago, I wrote an essay about the three important women in my life and called it “The Old Girls.” I was in my early sixties and the youngest “girl,” Jennie, was in her late eighties. The other two, Jane and Mary, were in their 90s, thus the appropriate title.
As I inch toward being an “old girl” myself in the 21st century, I thought it time to give the men in my life their proper due. Somehow, the title “The Old Boys” sounds not only disrespectful, but silly. I remember affectionately addressing my father as “old man” and him shaking his head in amused disbelief. Also, the older women previously featured were in fact much older than I was at the time.
The men that have influenced my life over the years all touched my heart in a way seldom addressed. There were no romantic overtures that got in the way of our respective friendships over the years. That’s not to say there haven’t been men with whom I shared liaisons. Alas, those physical moments, although pleasurable, lacked the emotional depth I experienced with the three wise gentlemen whose memories I cherish.
Dr. Pranzatelli
Dr. Ferdinand “Fred” Pranzatelli had an office on the third floor of the music school at Duquesne University. He eschewed the fluorescent lighting prevalent in all the practice rooms for the muted lighting from his desk lamp. His door was always open, and he was always welcoming. I never kept track of how many times I sat in the chair opposite his desk asking him questions, sharing my youthful thoughts without fear of judgement, amazed at his unassuming brilliance.
He had left the world of performance many years ago, after he had married and started a family. During one of our sessions, he mentioned he had been Concertmaster for the Rochester Philharmonic Orchestra and played with the NBC Orchestra under the renowned conductor Arturo Toscanini.
As a Music Education major, I was required to take a semester to learn at least the rudimentary techniques of all the instruments of the orchestra. It was fun to whip through the woodwinds (I was a flute major), tackle the awkwardness of the brasses (who invented the trombone? And why?), the wide potpourri of percussion equipment, and, of course, the strings.
That was my first introduction to Dr. Pranzatelli. He was knowledgeable and encouraging as we rotated from the violin to the viola, then the cello, and, last, but not least, the double bass. Each student had to demonstrate at least some level of proficiency. I remember writing a very basic four-piece string ensemble to perform for my final, enlisting three friends to cover the upper voices and I effortlessly strummed the upright base with my best attempt at be-bop.
I was good friends with two other music students, and we all were entranced by our professor who wasn’t especially tall or good looking, but he made us feel so special we created a silly mantra – “Divorce your wife and marry us”- knowing (to this day) how senseless that sounded.
I don’t remember talking specifically about music during our time together. We talked about life. I remember mentioning to him that my grandmother had died, a woman I was particularly close to. He told me that when his father passed, he felt sad, but when his mother died, he felt as if he had “lost his right arm.” His candor about his loss had a major effect on how I perceived death. He shared an intimate emotional moment which sealed my admiration for him far beyond brilliant professor.
In one of our informal office sessions, I mentioned that I was concerned about having time to write. Dr. Pranzatelli’s response? “What are you doing from five in the morning until seven every day?”
While I was at Duquesne, Dr. Pranzatelli was pursuing a double doctorate at the University of Pittsburgh. With his passion for philosophy and creativity he launched a new course in my senior year, The Creative Process.
He limited the class to twelve students, six women and six men, and without a doubt, it marked the pinnacle of my academic career. He introduced me to his son, Michael, who, in addition to being academically brilliant, was an accomplished artist, and a jazz guitarist named Dennis. Mr. Pranzatelli’s challenge to us was to explore a creative composition combining the three mediums, writing, painting, and music. It’s funny, I remember the first meeting but don’t believe we ever pursued working together. The important takeaway for me was the willingness to try new things, explore possibilities.
After graduation, I continued as a graduate assistant for a year, earning my master’s in music education, so we had the advantage of continuing our unofficial “mentor” relationship. I remember inviting Dr. Pranzatelli and his wife to my wedding the following year. He accepted the invitation but didn’t attend. It was a snowy evening, and the roads could have been dangerous, but I always suspected that he had second thoughts. Dr. Pranzatelli was an introvert. While he was perfectly at ease when I spent hours in conversation sitting across the desk from him when I was a student at Duquesne, it was time for both of us to move on.
One lovely addendum: I taught music in public schools for several years. When my husband asked for a divorce, I decided to buy a one-way ticket to Los Angeles to pursue a songwriting career. Interviewing for a governess position in Beverly Hills presented a practical solution for a place to live and time to continue writing. I listed Dr. Pranzatelli as a reference. When Lynn (my new “boss”) called me back, she said she had no choice but to hire me after the glowing conversation she had just had with my professor.
I miss him.
Roland
In the late 1980s I was working at the Howard Anderson Company in Culver City. I was busy supervising telecine mastering (the process of incorporating formatting for commercial breaks as well as overseeing the color correction from 35MM film to a videotape format required by the networks.) My duties were not simply limited to studio time. I was the liaison for corporate execs, laboratory techs, and hands-on producers for many hour-long drama series (i.e. Cagney & Lacey) and feature films (i.e. Thelma and Louise). I was busy.
But my evenings were free, and I looked into extension night courses in writing at nearby UCLA. I wasn’t in a serious relationship at the time, although I continued to explore a social life.
What was important for me was to write. My first two attempts were a bust. Kate Braverman was a poet and adjunct professor of fiction at UCLA. At the first session she told us we were required to buy two of her books for the class which turned me off. She was also in the process of giving up smoking, so she chewed gum loudly all night. I think she must have done everything loudly because I asked UCLA for my money back after the first class. It wasn’t a good fit. I also signed up for a scriptwriting course at AFI (American Film Institute). This teacher (whose name I’ve forgotten) was charming and I stuck it out for eight weeks before I realized I had no interest in writing scripts.
My third attempt was the charm. Roland Barber was about my height (5’7”), had gray hair, and wore a turtleneck with a comfortable sport coat, and smoked a pipe. He was soft-spoken but commanded the attention of the class from the beginning. There were approximately twenty “adult” students, all interested in pursuing the world of writing.
Roland’s approach to teaching the class was different than any other I had experienced. Each week he asked us to write a short story, bring two copies to class, one for him and one for the author to read aloud. After the story was heard, the only person that was allowed to comment on the work was Roland. I thought this was genius. As students, rather than preoccupying ourselves with composing a question for discussion, we learned to listen! Brilliant! Not only was the gauntlet thrown down to create a short story every week (which was a challenge), I looked forward to listening to others’ work AND hearing Roland’s perspective. I don’t remember him telling any of us regarding any specific literary changes. He mostly asked questions and/or presented possibilities.
Each week he returned our stories with comments. He was complimentary about my story, The Picnic, and wrote a note in the margin, “You’re a natural writer.” Reading those words blew me away. It was like I had been waiting all my life for a positive statement and finally it was right there in blue ink on my first submitted story!
I clearly remember writing Dear Jennifer, an epistolary format, early in the morning, making a list the night before of who Jennifer would be “hearing” from the next day. My memory was triggered by Dr. Pranzatelli’s words years ago. In fact, I did write my first novel from five a.m. to seven a.m.).
I recall the night it was my turn to read in Roland’s class; I began reading and I remember stopping about five letters in and looking at my classmates around the table. “Is this working?” I really didn’t know, but everyone encouraged me to continue. The following week when Roland handed me back my copy he had written on the bottom of the page. “You’ve written a 10,000-word story that could be expanded to a novella of 40,000 words. Think about it.”
The challenge was unique. You see, Michael, the main character, dies at the end. It became my mission to essentially write the back story leading up to the finale.
After the last class, Roland suggested my time would be better served one on one, and from then on for several years I met Roland in his study at home working primarily on my second novel, Summer in Ben Avon. His wife Pearl and dog Annie were always welcoming.
At one point after Dear Jennifer was finalized, Roland recommended me to an agent. At the time he said he thought 4% of any agreement, more or less a “finder’s fee,” would be appropriate. I was totally unprepared for this suggestion, naïve as to the ways of the publishing world. (I remember running the idea by friends, asking if it was comparable to say John Elway’s college coach asking for a share of his pro signing bonus.) I stopped our sessions not long after. Did I make a mistake? Sometimes, I think so.
I was so fortunate to benefit from Roland’s mentorship. I have a small picture in my office of him holding his pipe and looking ever so like the successful author and mentor he was.
I miss him.
Don
A classic case of role reversal. I was now the creative writing instructor at Peninsula College in Washington State, offering the community course to mostly retirees recording memories before they faded and a few younger folks with a desire to pursue their creative dreams.
I styled the weekly evening sessions after what Roland had established. I felt confident in my abilities to offer suggestions and encouragement, so I was the only one to comment on the students’ work. I strongly encouraged them to exchange phone numbers and continue discussions after class.
Teaching seniors proved to be incredibly satisfying. People who have lived decades have a wealth of life experiences from which to draw. Most of my students had a fair command of the English language and a passable ability to utilize word processing. (Although my favorite student, Mary wrote her weekly stories in cursive on lined paper – twice!)
Several of the students had distinguished themselves in impressive careers. Donovan Wilken stood out. He retired from the University of Arizona as Professor Emeritus with a PhD. in Biological Science & Human Ecology. Don was beyond proficient in the academic world having published many research papers but approached fiction with trepidation. His first shared writing was a quasi-true trip to Africa he had taken as a young man, sharing an impromptu stay in a tribal village, and a romantic encounter. I assured him he should continue this new venture in creativity!
I’m not certain when we went from student/teacher relationship to good friends, but I think it started with our passion for hiking Grand Canyon. Living in Arizona, he could easily explore the trails on a weekly basis and had even run “Rim to Rim,” (a feat had he accomplished in a day and I had stretched over three days including two nights at Phantom Ranch).
Over the years I have taught hundreds of students but rarely socialized with anyone. Don was the exception. We often met at a local tea shop just to talk. We discussed our families, life, his latest community project, my frustrations with publishing, and past times. Don had wanted to be a pilot, but his eyesight nixed that dream. Since he couldn’t fly, he explored the earth to the fullest.
We had several dinners together with our mates before Julie and he moved to the Chicago area. As luck would have it, I had family living north of Chicago so whenever we made the trip to the mid-west, Kay and I made time to visit with Don and Julie and share a meal together.
The last time we were together, he and Julie had moved to a retirement community. Never one to sit idle, Don had continued emailing contacts about sustainability and formed an action group in the neighborhood. The fall weather was perfect for a stroll around the neighborhood after lunch. Julie and Kay walked a few blocks ahead of Don and me. He knew his cancer had progressed to its final stage and my friend and I talked.
I still miss him.