Trombone was my first horn. Proficiency came quickly.
Soon I knew all the brass and most wind instruments.
In those days there were four ballrooms in San José,
each with its orchestra and steady business.
I got my first gig as a high school sophomore
for adult pay, full time. Playing for people dancing
you egg each other on. I was the cat's pajamas.
I'd drive back to the ranch past midnight. Before dawn
your grandfather would wake me to hunt quail,
or deer, or duck. It lasted for six years.
The month the talkies came to town the ballrooms closed.
Folks stopped dancing and sat down in the dark in rows,
listening, in silence, motionless, as in a dream.
A bandmate told me steamship companies
hired musicians. I signed on with Matson
and sailed on the Malolo, the pineapple run,
and kept afloat through the Depression traveling
the world with cruise ship orchestras performing show tunes
in grand saloons with rolling decks awash
in anxious wealth. The War put a stop to that.
Too old for war, ashore I started teaching music
in Marysville and Yuba City schools, and after,
enrolled at State for a credential, was asked to stay
as an instructor. When it came time to write
a dissertation I proposed to gauge
our impact on the students’ general education
since our State College Charter mandates its promotion.
I tested entering freshmen and graduates and found
we make no difference. My chairman said “Forrest,
you have no problem. Find another topic.”
Forrest Baird, D.Ed.