I introduced myself to the proprietor and explained why I was there, and I also said in my best “pleading” voice that the Red School House was “very poor” and any financial consideration would be greatly appreciated. He offered to let me trade in the school’s bow for a better one that he happened to have in the shop, and “there would be no charge!”

I showed him the school’s violin and asked him if he would evaluate it for us. He looked it over, tuned it, and played a few scales.

“Not bad “he said.

He gave me a couple of polishing cloths and showed me how to clean up the instrument so it would “look nice again.”

He then asked me, “What do you play?”

“Organ and piano,” I replied.

He asked, “How about the violin?”

I sadly shook my head, and told him about Honey, my little dog at home; years ago, whenever I practiced the violin for college String Class, Honey would howl and hide under the bed. However, now that I would hopefully have some kids interested in learning to play the violin, I’d better brush up on my non-existent technique. The least I could do was to give them a solid foundation.

I bought a “Violin for Beginners” book. It would give me a head start on my potential students. After paying for my purchases and thanking the proprietor of the shop, I drove home. I had a violin to clean up.

The following morning I drove back to the Red School House and started my next project, the piano. Fortunately, it had all of its strings and keys. So far, so good. I hooked up my strobe tuner and checked a few notes. They were really flat (out of tune).

An explanation for non-piano players: The lowest keys on the piano derive their sound from one (thick) string per key. All the higher notes derive their sound from three strings for each key. In order to tune the piano, the pitches of all three strings must be matched exactly.

For the lowest notes, I set the tuner dial to the correct letter of the music alphabet (A-B-C-D-E-F-G). The lighted dial shows me how far “up” or “down” I need to adjust the sound. This is done by lightly tapping on the tuning hammer handle; up or down. For the rest of the keys, I first set the correct sound (pitch) with the tuner for the middle string, and then, by listening, I adjust the outer two strings to the center string). 

As I started to tune, kids came into the room and one of them asked, “Hey man, who are you and what ya doing?”

I had already noticed that everyone called everyone by their first name, so I said, “I am Gerrit, the music teacher, and I am fixing and tuning the piano.”

He replied, “Cool, can I be in your class?”

I said, “I’d like that. We’ll have to ask in the office, but first I have to finish tuning the piano, and I need it to be very quiet in here so I can hear the wrong and the right sounds. You can watch me if you like, and I’ll explain what I do, and maybe someday you may want to become a piano tuner; but for now you’ll have to sit on the floor and be very quiet.”

As I picked up my tuning hammer it suddenly dawned on me, I had just started my first music class.

The next couple of days were filled with a variety of activities, meeting the other teachers, and getting my “Music Room” ready  in preparation for the start of the school year, It would begin the following Monday. Over the years I had been blessed by being exposed to many different teaching environments, but nothing compared to what I was about to face at the Red School House. There was no “Music Curriculum” and I was the first “music teacher” in the school. And, more than that, I was a white dude surrounded by an overwhelming number of American Indians. I was their teacher and they were my students. All I could say to myself was, “Cool!”

The piano was tuned and some minor repairs were made. It was ready to make music again. I attempted to play some scales and a couple of simple tunes on the violin. I smiled as I again thought about Honey, my little dog from years ago; and I wondered if she were here when my students began to practice, would she run out of the room again? Or perhaps, like she used to do when she wanted to tell me something, she would hold her head sort of sideways and just look at me. Her expression seemed to say, “You’re no better at it today than you were yesterday!” By Friday afternoon I went home exhausted. It had been quite a week, but I somehow knew that it was mild in comparison to what lay ahead,

Monday morning came all too soon. Kids were everywhere. Above the noise I heard the sounds of the Music Room piano. It was being tortured. I walked into my room and in my best “outdoor voice.”

I yelled “Stop!”

Everyone froze as I walked over to the piano, closed the key cover lid, and sat down on the piano bench. It was very quiet.

Then, in a very soft voice, I said, “Good morning, Boozhoo. I am Gerrit and I am the music teacher. You are in the Music Room and in this room you will learn about the music that I was taught and, hopefully, you will teach me about Indian music.

“Music is a sacred language and musical instruments are sacred instruments. They are to be treated with respect and love, just like the people who are in this room. For those of you who want to learn to play these instruments, I will teach you what I know.”

It was time to go to the gym. I had been told that every Monday morning we gathered in the gym for a welcoming ceremony. Porkie, the Elder of the tribe, was in charge. Porkie traditionally would select someone from the group, and that person was expected to make an impromptu presentation on a subject of their own choosing. From a distance I could already hear the sounds of rhythmic drumming and the sound of Indian singing. As we entered the gym the sound grew in intensity. The students and teachers were sitting and kneeling in an ever larger circle.

I smelled smoke. There was a fire somewhere. Then I saw it, it was burning on an iron plate in the middle of the circle. My first thought was to run to the office and have them call the local fire department. The teacher who had entered the gym with me saw my consternation and started to laugh.

He said, “It’s alright, Gerrit, This is part of the welcoming ceremony! We do this every Monday morning and we haven’t burned the place down yet.”

I had much to learn.

A young man, one of the students, came around and held out a dish of what turned out to be tobacco. I almost said, “No, thank you. I don’t smoke”; but I was instructed to take a pinch and hold it in my hand “for later”. I learned that tobacco is considered to be a sacred plant among Indian people, and it is used to purify the air during the ceremony.

The drumming group was made up of elders as well as some young school students. I didn’t know if they were good, but they were loud, very loud. When everyone was present, the music stopped and it became very quiet. Porkie, the Elder tribesman, moved to the center of the circle, and began to speak. 

He welcomed everyone back from the weekend, and he thanked Grandfather, The Great Spirit, for giving us health and for giving us the opportunity to gather together. He prayed for the sick and the lonely, and for those who were in prison.

Then it was time for the tobacco ceremony. My teacher friend said, “just follow me; when it’s our turn, we go up to the fire, sprinkle the tobacco on the fire, say a silent prayer, and return to our place.”

As I approached the fire I found myself to be overwhelmed as I stood, alone, before the Great Spirit. I asked for strength and for wisdom; and somehow I knew that my prayer would be answered. I sprinkled the tobacco on the fire and slowly walked back to my place. The “ceremony” was a deeply moving, transformational experience for me. It would be a moment in time that would always have a treasured place in my heart.

Porky had a few announcements to make. The last of which was that he introduced me, the new Music Teacher, Gerrit, and wished me a good year. The ceremony ended and we all went to our individual rooms. I wiped a tear from my eye. It was probably because of the smoke.

My dream, as a 12-year-old Dutch immigrant kid, riding on a train from New York to Grand Rapids, Michigan many years ago, was fulfilled. In a big way! Not only did I finally get to meet real American Indians, but I was going to be one of their teachers!

The ways of Grandfather, the Great Spirit, are truly beyond our understanding! Boozhoo!

EDITOR’S NOTE: Gerrit Lamain is a former Copper Country resident who served as a music professor at Suomi College. He has published a book, “Gerrit’s Notes: A compilation of essays,” which can be found on Amazon. His email address is gerrit.lamain@gmail.com.