I was in the middle of trumpet practice when I got the
news. After playing a string of high
notes I never could have hit in high school, I glanced through my email and saw
words I had long expected and dreaded:
Mr. Roina died.
I envy those of you who can call him "Ed." More than four decades later, this teachers'
kid still cannot use that level of familiarity.
Perhaps Paula, another teacher's kid, will understand. But her dad inspired that mixture of both
familiarity and respect. In the avalanche
of comments on Facebook, I've seen everything from "he turned my life
around" to people who got to interact with him on a frequent and familiar
level.
Ted Kennedy famously eulogized, "My brother need not be
idealized, or enlarged in death beyond what he was in life." I have tried not to let my memories run away
with the real Ed Roina, yet it is hard not to idealize a man, a teacher, who
touched so many lives, and who lived a life we might not believe if it were
written as fiction. To understand what I
mean, read the excellent piece "And His Band Played On" by Jannette
Jauregui, published in the Santa Paula Times 12/03/03.
Some teachers put up with us. Some liked us. Some loathed us. I think that Ed Roina truly loved us. I know he was harder on some than on others,
and that some of us drove him crazy. But
my experience was that he was fair and respectful to all. Along with family and church, band was where
I learned the things that formed the core of who I am, my best self. I learned to work as a group, and especially
in marching band I saw how individuals working together can create a whole that
is efficient and beautiful.
Besides music, I learned discipline, responsibility, and
adaptation. I remember Mr. Roina's story
about playing tuba to qualify for a position (perhaps the Navy band?) and
seeing a low note approaching that he knew his instrument could not hit. When the note arrived, he sang it (I can hear
his rich basso voice) and moved on. He
got the position. Years later as a very
young marching band student, I was lining up for the parade route when he
noticed my red socks. I had proudly
chosen them, thinking they coordinated well with the uniform. I learned about regulation uniforms when,
after an exasperated sigh, he traded his darker socks for mine – explaining
that the judges might deduct less points than if they saw them on me.
I look back at band as the great melting pot of grade
school, junior high, and high school. It
was the class that saved my life and sanity all through school. During years when I felt out of place
everywhere, I "belonged" in band. All of us:
"soshes", jocks, brains, nerds, the quiet, the unseen, the
unclean, all the castes of our adolescent society – we became one and we all
"belonged" in band.
I was never the strongest or most talented player, and I
should have practiced way more than I did.
But I know that I looked forward to band every day, and the time passed
way too quickly. I started out at 11
years old on trombone; after an initial mild double-take ("You want to
play trombone?") he became my musical mentor for life.
There are always things we wish someone had done, or not
done – I wish he had encouraged me to continue music in college; and I wish he
had not praised Sandra King's talent in a twist when I initially thought he was
talking about mine (Sandy, do you know how much he admired your playing?) I waited three years with the hope of being
first trombone my senior year, and was disappointed to not be chosen. I learned
to overcome disappointment, to always keep playing, and that every player is
integral to the group. He recognized
that plodding determination when, much to my surprise, he called my name as the
Eva Walden music award recipient. And I
thought he was talking about Sandy in his lead up to the award.
The gifts he gave me will never end. He started a jazz band
when I was in high school. I never heard
this music in my home and I never quite "got" it. But he kept letting me play. Thirty years later I was playing trumpet in a
jazz band that performed in local venues, and I was "getting" it and
loving it. I continue to play in the
local community band.
I've just agreed to play in a Veterans' Day parade, and that
reminded me of a Veterans' Day at the Santa Paula cemetery, playing "My
Buddy" and seeing grown men weep as they listened. I was learning the power of music, but I had
no idea what that song meant to Mr. Roina until reading Jannette's
article. He was the kind of man and
teacher whose death inspires tears from former students 51 years after their
first lesson.
As I read the obituary and the many comments from former
students, I remembered he was also an art teacher, but I was stunned by the
depth and breadth of his talent, of his life before Santa Paula. There was also mention of the church we both
attended. I recalled how I dreaded Lent
– first because it was Lent, but especially because Mr. Roina would give up his
pipe. Oh, those were dark days. I don't know if all the broken batons happened
during Lent, but I remember we could all breathe easier after those 40 days of
edginess.
He did change my life. He taught me to play and to appreciate music, one of the passions of my life. He provided a safe, challenging, exciting place to be every day.
He did change my life. He taught me to play and to appreciate music, one of the passions of my life. He provided a safe, challenging, exciting place to be every day.
He allowed this painfully shy person to interact with classmates I otherwise would never have known. I'm astounded to think I got up in front of all my peer musicians and earned my SP letter for conducting. Only through his teaching, guidance, and support were so many things possible for me then, and now.
When my brother Joe died in 2001, I was back in Santa Paula at my mother's home, waiting for the funeral. I knew I needed something to ease the grief and the waiting, and I went up the hill to the high school. There, in a band room new to me, Ed and Barbara Roina greeted me warmly and offered condolences. Then Mr. Roina rummaged around in the back, found an ancient trumpet, and invited me to sit in for practice. The bewildered trumpet players couldn't know what that meant to me, but Mr. Roina certainly knew the power of music in the face of grief.
So when I heard of his death, I turned to music, and
listened through the Fauré Requiem.
Surely Mr. Roina was familiar with those soaring melodies, particularly
the movement "In Paradisum", with its text from the Catholic Order of
Burial. Those are the words of farewell
I pray for him now:
"May the angels
lead you into paradise . . .
may the chorus of angels receive you . . .
may you
have eternal rest."
Thanks, Ed, and Godspeed.
This article was originally published in the Santa Paula Times, October 25, 2013
