While it is the case that no few marching bands have had their contest seasons end, it is also the case that many are moving ahead to higher-level contests; Bandtober is far from done, and so I will have more to say about it yet than the one or two comments I’ve made about it in the past few weeks. One part of that “more” is that I have continued to work with the marching band at my local high school, not only because my daughter is in the band program and I want her to have the best possible program as she moves ahead, and not only because my being out in the community and helping with such groups is good for me and for the business I manage, but also because I have long benefited from strong band programs, and I believe in them as Good Things (yes, the capitals are on purpose). What I learned from being in bands across years has done a lot to sustain me, and it has opened up opportunities for me that would not have been available had I not had the experiences I did in the band programs that were far kinder to me for far longer than I deserved; I do want other people to have such opportunities, and so I work to help make them available, even if only in small ways as I am able.

My third year of high school was an interesting year to be in the band. The school district where I was enrolled had declined to replace the marching band uniforms I and the rest of those in the band had worn my freshman and sophomore years despite those uniforms being clearly well beyond their expected lifespan. Many or most of them were mildewed through, the fungus resisting all attempts to dry-clean it away. Many or most of them were stained with years of adolescent sweat that had stewed in uniform bags and dark closets, what should have been white yellowed beyond redemption and what was blue splotched and speckled with dark spots that no scrubbing would take out. No few of them had hook-and-loop closures that had long since failed but still demanded wear, obliging several to trust themselves to safety pins that all too often came undone and hooked themselves into the backs of necks, adding bloodstains to already-befouled jackets. And for all of that, for all the complaints across years about all of it, the district shrugged its collective shoulders and muttered something about budget constraints before buying jockstraps in bulk and pom-poms aplenty.

The band’s answer, or the answer fit for anything resembling public discussion, was to have each member purchase their own uniform for the year. Given the show we marched (“1945,” complete with swing classics and patriotic medleys) and where we were going to start marching it (Kerrville has long been billed as a retirement community, and a lot of the retirees were and are veterans, no few of whom then remembered the 1940s), the decision was made to have those uniforms mimic the khaki uniforms of World War II US service personnel, complete with rank markers to denote class and leadership positions. They weren’t perfect replicas, of course, but they worked well enough for what we needed them to do. (That the color guard wore maroon didn’t hurt, either; there were and are a lot of graduates from Texas A&M in town.)

I remember the uniforms taking more care and maintenance than the ones we had had before, but that had the advantage of having me in a clean getup every time I took the field. (Taking care of my uniform is also part of how I learned to iron a shirt and trousers, skills I have definitely used since.) I also remember that, between the publication of our buying our own uniforms and how we performed in them, the school district found space in the budget to buy a new set of uniforms (for which I was the test run, as it happened; it might have been coincidence that the “display model” sent was in my sizing, but perhaps not). And that outward show of support, I am given to understand, helped things continue in a good way for a while…but by that time, I wasn’t around to see what was happening. My brother was, but I had other concerns then.

Maybe I shouldn’t have. Maybe I should have been more open then than I was to keeping in touch with people and institutions in which I had played some part. It’s certainly the case that, as I’ve moved back and moved on, I’ve searched for connections; I’d’ve had an easier time of doing so had I not made as much of a point of letting them go in my youth. I’m fortunate that the work I do now allows me to do something to establish new ones, and I can hope that what I do here and now will help those who have followed after me to have it at least a little easier than I did.

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