The last and all too brief conversation I had with local historian Bob Powers here in the Kern River Valley happened to touch on the small library in “Old Kernville.” There are few of us left here in the valley to recall that first excursion our principal Mr. Wallace took us on to visit the small library, but I will never forget it. Reminiscent of the library in Spencer’s Mountain, our own had a somewhat similar beginning due to those with a love of books.

Next to exploring my forest fastness, sharing it with my companions of birds and animals, because of being immersed in good literature from earliest childhood I had a love of being surrounded by books; another world of exploration inviting me to take part that never failed of wonderful discoveries. However, it was appropriate the first book I should choose from our little newly birthed local library had to do with geology so I could better understand this part of the Sequoia National Forest I came to call “home.”

During a period of our young lives when teachers weren’t even real humans, but near paranormal beings that only appeared during school hours and mysteriously disappeared at the last bell of the school day to some peculiar ethereal and nether world of their own beyond the kin of children Mr. Wallace was an exception. That first year of Mr. Wallace in the valley, he immediately impressed all of us at Old Kernville Elementary with his good humor and earnest concern for our education. He also introduced some of us to one of the first TV sets in the valley, taking our class to his home to watch one of the games of the 1949 World Series.

During a period of valley history before the “Dam people” arrived to swell the numbers and Isabella had a population of 36 and Kernville 115, the cultural amenities were few, so our little library was a real godsend to us and Mr. Wallace made sure we made good use of it. A personal debt I owe Mr. Wallace was his hiring me as the only “Junior Custodian” for the elementary school when I started high school. I earned the then princely sum of $35 a month for cleaning floors, restrooms, and blackboards, this at a time when I was using an ax, saw, shovel, and pick for $1 an hour. You can well imagine my gratitude toward Mr. Wallace.

But there was something else besides our library of genuine culture introduced to the valley at the time: A school band.

Mr. Swadburg was our music instructor, and he made it possible for me to buy my clarinet, a genuine French Leblanc from Fred Gutcher’s Music Store in Bakersfield. I had dreamed of learning to play the clarinet from earliest memory, no doubt influenced by those old Benny Goodman movies. But there was magic in simply holding that magnificent, beautiful ebony and silver instrument in my hands; and to call it my own was a dream realized. Learning to play it, however, was quite something else.

Many of you doubtless have seen the film “The Music Man” with Robert Preston and Shirley Jones. And no doubt you got a kick out of Professor Howard Hill’s bamboozling the folks of River City with his “Think System” of learning to play a musical instrument. Well, I could have disabused the folks of River City in short order from my own experience.

As with knowledge, I quickly found out there was no “royal path” to learning to play the clarinet. It took hours of daily practice, hours of daily learning to read music and running scales endlessly. This was a lot of self discipline for any kid, but I was determined to master this beautiful instrument; I was determined to make beautiful music with it. And as President Coolidge pointed out, there is no substitute for perseverance.

Eventually our small band was able to make music, and our first public performance given at the Elementary School was very well attended. Everybody who could possibly come did so. I doubt any theatrical opening on Broadway enjoyed such a turn out, statistically speaking. And I doubt any performers were more equal to the task than we were at this debut of a real school band. Under Mr. Swadburg’s direction we made music; and it was beautiful music!

As with good literature, good music had always been a part of my life. My grandmother played piano marvelously and my mother had a wonderful collection of records of the most popular music of WWII, those terrific melodies and songs that continue to be played and sung today. But it wasn’t until after our performance at the school while grandad was driving us home that I learned something about the privilege I unconsciously enjoyed being raised by music lovers like my mother and grandparents.

“You know son,” my grandfather said to me, “you practicing on that clarinet every day nearly drove me crazy. But listening to you in that band tonight made it all worthwhile.”

Perhaps you can imagine how proud I was at grandad’s praise. It was seldom given, but when it was I knew it was earned. Only then did I realize, however, how much my grandparents sacrificed in order for me to make music. Those interminable hours of practice running scales, difficult as they were for me had to have been extremely difficult for my grandparents to endure without complaint.

But there was something else I learned along with learning to play the clarinet, something I carried with me into my career as a teacher. There are few things comparable to a child learning to play a musical instrument. The sense of achievement is enormous, the sense of self worth, of self esteem together with being able to make music is a lesson I wish were available to all children.

However, the music should be melodious, not a cacophony of noise with the pretense of “music.” As with good books, if children are introduced to good music in the home they will respond accordingly. It is a sad, if not tragic commentary about the times in which we live that both good books and good music are a rarity in too many homes across America, that the music programs in our schools are so undervalued, if they exist at all. Yet the appreciation of good books and good music remain a valid judgment about a truly civilized society.