The Curse of a Cheap Bookshelf

Our family moved into our current home on August 1, 1991. It was one of those typical August days in Georgia, and the heat and humidity were stifling. My friends and colleagues in ministry at First Christian Church of College Park, Billy Rowe and Steve Clark, helped me load the U-Haul truck at our old house in East Point and unload it at the new one in Tyrone. I remember saying at the end of that day, “The next time I move, Carmichael’s will move me.” (At the time, Carmichael’s would have been my funeral home of preference!)

I had a funeral that afternoon. I can’t remember whose it was, but she was a member at First Christian and had a relative who was a Methodist minister. The two of us were to do the funeral together at 2 p.m. at the old Wright’s Funeral Home in Fairburn. When I went to take a shower at our new home, it was immediately obvious that Atlanta Gas Light had not kept their timeline for turning on the gas, and the shower I took was all cold water! I survived and arrived at the funeral home in plenty of time. Sitting in a room for preachers prior the service, the Methodist minister said, “I understand you’re moving today.”  I replied in the affirmative and indicated that I was happy to be in the air conditioning of the funeral home.

He told me an interesting story about moving. It really has little to do with what I’m writing, about but is worth mentioning. He said, “I’m one of those Methodist preachers that the bishop moves every two years.” I told him what I had already said about my next move! He laughed and said, “But I have a fairly large box in the attic. It is all taped up and labeled ‘general stuff.’ When I moved here, it was my tenth move as a Methodist preacher. We have moved that box every time. I have no idea what is in it, but we move it every time.”

At some level, I thanked God I wasn’t a Methodist preacher!

But back to my point. In the next day or two, I put up an inexpensive metal bookshelf in the garage and unpacked all of Vicki’s organ and piano music. If you knew Vicki, you probably know she was an accomplished organist and pianist.  She obtained a master of sacred music degree in organ and piano performance from Cincinnati Christian Seminary. She had lots of classical organ and piano music — most of which was carefully stacked on that inexpensive bookshelf in the garage in August 1991. (My goal was to see how quickly we could park both vehicles in the garage after moving!) For the most part, that music – the more classical stuff – has been there ever since. There are other places where the great music she played for so many years at First Christian Church was stored.

Fast forward to Tuesday, 19 July 2022. We had a horrible thunderstorm in our neighborhood. I actually ended up in having to replace my modem and router as a result of the lightning from that storm. The blue flash in my living room and the shaking of my house got my attention quickly. Thankfully, Bethany lives next door and helped me, via Amazon, get my internet back up and running by 10:30 the next morning.

I went out into the garage on that Tuesday night to get something, and I immediately noticed that the inexpensive bookshelf holding up priceless copies of organ and piano music had collapsed in front of the back door of the garage. Forget the internet outage – that was Vicki’s music!

I don’t know if the lightning and thunder caused the bookshelf to finally collapse, but I suspect the way the house shook when the storm was passing over was the last straw for that cheap shelf that had so faithfully held up that music for 30-plus years.

I took a picture and sent it to Sarah and Bethany. By the time I hit “send,” Bethany came out and saw what was going on and instantly said, “Let me do this.” A few minutes later I had a text form Sarah saying, “We can take care of this.” While I am blessed with such incredible children, I didn’t want anyone else to do the cleanup.

So I carefully took the pile of music from the shelves and on the floor and stacked it neatly on a table in the garage I normally use for wintering plants. The memories. Many of the “books” – not sure what the proper term for collections of organ music is – were gifts to Vicki from the collection her graduate-level organ teacher, E. Wayne Berry, gave her. I remembered his very professional-looking signature. Then I remembered that he took Vicki and me, along with Beth and Roy Mays (Beth and Vicki did joint recitals in their master’s programs) to a little place called The Golden Lamb in Lebanon, Ohio, for dinner. The place was established in 1803. A metal trivet from that restaurant hangs on the wall in our garage. I remember the food was fantastic, and Professor Berry and his wife were among the more gracious people we met in our Cincinnati sojourn. 

Some of the music on that shelf was music Vicki played in her master’s organ recital, including J.S. Bach’s “Toccata and Fugue in D Minor.” If that piece of music doesn’t move you, check your heart – it may not be beating! (I’m listening to it as I type these words.) There were also some old cantata pieces that churches once considered essential to Christmas and Easter. There were carol books, hymn books, and a host of technical piano and organ practice exercises. A number of music theory books finished out the collection on those shelves. 

My simple little heart was ripping itself apart. In my head, I could hear Vicki playing those pieces. I could remember music at First Christian – which was amazing, whether more classical in nature or incredible arrangements of great hymns like “A Mighty Fortress” or “Christ the Lord is Risen Today.” I’m not sure people there fully appreciated what they were blessed to hear every Sunday morning. Then I could remember her taking time – when children happened to show up while she was practicing – of playing the theme to The Pink Panther and other similar stuff.

A few days later, I drove down to West Point with my good friend Jim Donovan. In the course of our conversation, I told him about the music crashing down to the floor and how I had to clean it up in order to get out the back door of the garage. In his ever-perceptive way he asked, “How was that?” It was all I could do not to burst into tears. But . . . I was driving! I didn’t want to lose control and take out Point’s two oldest professors.

But that question forced me to think about the pain of picking up piece after piece of Vicki’s music – in many ways, her life. I should have bought a more substantial bookshelf, but the pain of picking up that music was matched with the wonders of my memory of her as an outstanding musician. Vicki didn’t do anything for which she didn’t offer her absolute best. Understanding how God blessed me with such a partner for life remains above my pay grade.

A kind of distant friend told me not too long ago, “Well, you will get over it. You won’t miss her so much.” I don’t think so. In fact, I don’t want to not miss her. I’m not walking around in mourning, wearing black suits to work every day, but don’t expect me to forget about 48 years and two weeks of a wonderful marriage that was suddenly gone. I still wear my wedding band on my ring finger of my left hand and still wear a pancreatic cancer reminder bracelet on my right arm next to my watch. (I’m left-handed, so the watch is on the right hand!) I don’t intend to quit doing that.

What I’ve learned about grief in these eleven months is that its pain can also produce incredible reminders of joy. One side of me wishes that the old cheap bookshelf had never collapsed. The other side of me rejoices in the wonderful reminder of days gone by that have shaped who I am and who I plan to continue to be.

God bless that old stack of music. It certainly blessed me with memories.