(PART 9) How DCI and Star of Indiana changed my life

(Make sure you read Part 8
before reading this.)


Well... there I sat. I sat there at Dave's Convenience Store that was right across the street from Indiana University stadium. I had walked away from it all. All of the adversity I had faced to get here has ended in this pitiful manner. I sat at Dave's on this rickety old bench awkwardly cemented on the narrow walk space to the front door. I could tell this bench's domicile was once in a community park or a church playground. It once had a more pleasant existence. A more purposeful existence. But now here we both were strangers in an unknown environment. Very carefully painted on this bench were the words: "Liar's Bench." That's what I was... A liar. I lied to myself that I could face down my demons. I had done it for 18 years! "Remember the equipment moving in the rain at the first camp?" I told myself. I had almost let that derail me. That incident seemed so insignificant to me now. It was so meniscule in perspective to my journey thus far. Could this be the same?

 A little determination and a "clear and present" lack of transportation options got me off that Liar's Bench. I was no longer going to lie to myself. I drew from that same well that helped me get through that and every other adversity I had faced. I pulled it together. I stood up and stared at that Goliath of a stadium. It served as a metaphor for all I had to face upon entrance. I felt as if I were the Roman soldier that had to enter the Coliseum to the Circus Maximus to face whatever fate Ceasar had prepared for me. As I gazed over the sun drenched asphalt, I couldn't help but notice the preliminary construction stages of a midway carnival on the parking lot. For a moment, I watched those workers diligently place every piece where it belonged like obsequious soldier ants. It temporarily served as my motivation to cross the street and head back to rehearsal. As I passed the construction site, I saw orange cones sectioning off the area for the carnival. Each cone was linked with string and little hand made signs that said, "Reserved for Fun Frolic." Fun Frolic?!? Hahaha! That was the funniest thing i'd seen so far as a new temporary citizen of Bloomington, Indiana. With that, somehow, I knew things weren't so bad.


I could hear the pounding of the percussion section as I entered the stadium. I was nervous. What was about to happen to me? I was not sure, but I was prepared to take my "medicine." As if I were in a play and the script called for the next actor to enter the stage, I hear the voice of Eric Lund, the equipment manager! Crap! Well, so much for easing back into this thing. I didn't see him, but I heard him. "That xylo took a helluva tumble, eh?" he said jokingly. Jokingly! Huh?! "I braced it up there and put some DW-40 on those wheels. It should be stronger than when they built it," Eric continued. He whipped around the xylophone that I thought I had totaled. He had done a 180 on his attitude and a 180 on this instrument! This xylophone looked as if nothing ever happened to it. That's how good he was. It was at this moment I gained a whole new level of respect for Eric. He was the best at his craft. The guy I once feared, suddenly had a heart. I could hear forgiveness in his voice. I could hear him making a conscious effort to seem comforting. That's when I learned how to relate to Mr. Lund. This, I found, was a rite of passage in Star of Indiana. You make right with Eric Lund, you are good.


The funny thing about this entire ordeal was not much was said about it. I began to see that most of my problems were much greater in my head than in reality. I descend down the ramp road of terror that claimed my xylophone as its first victim. The percussion was in ensemble rehearsal, sans my parts. As soon as I got to my position, Thom Hannum was making comments on the last repitition over the PA system. Thom ended his comments with, "Yo Tone... Welcome back... Pit, let's celebrate... Gimmie fifty," he said in his signature brand of sarcasm that was well impersonated by everyone in the percussion section throughout the season. "Fifty" meant fifty push ups. Push ups became the very core of the pit's existence. Every offense from playing out of time to not moving fast enough was punishable with death by push ups. I assumed the position. The pit had a unique way of faking push ups (from camp until now) by hiding behind an instrument and jerking your neck violently like a Thanksgivng turkey trying to escape the chopping block. That was soon caught on to by the staff and eliminated. By the end of tour we were up to at least 1000+ per day. I did the pushups and so did everyone else. Oddly enough, nothing else was ever mentioned about this incident.


Sunday morning was here. Except, unlike every Sunday morning I'd experienced with Star, I wasn't going home. I was here for the Summer. I made my first phone call home. In the early 90's this task was accomplished via pay phone and a dreaded calling card. My Aunt Stine answered the phone. "Hey, I was just letting everyone know that I was ok, alive and having fun!" I exclaimed.  I was raised by my Grandmother and my Aunt. My mother had a lifelong struggle with a drug addiction that was slowly taking her away from me. My Aunt and I exchanged niceties for a few more minutes and then she dropped the bomb. "Well, I don't want to ruin the good time you're having, but I just wanted to let you know that your mom is in jail and will be there for a while." The news cut me right to my soul. I knew this day was coming based on the life my mother was leading. Here it was. "What happened? What did she do?" I asked, not apologizing for the obvious lump in my throat. "They said she was involved in a ring of people breaking into cars," my Aunt filled me in. She didn't elaborate. I could tell it was just as hard for her to tell me as it was for me to hear it. We ended our conversation. Both of us affected for the worse.


Devastated and broken, I made my way back to the cafeteria for breakfast. I didn't feel much like socializing. The news had just made everything I was doing seem so insignificant. As bad as the relationship I had with my mother was, she was still my mother and now she was not a part of the free world. That made me ill. A sudden comotion of staff members entering the room immediately drew my attention. Dubie was leading the pack. I could see a flash of "rememberance" come to Dubie's face. He bee-lined over to me. "Oh, Tony, I forgot to tell you we do a little devotional outside at the pavilion on Sundays for anyone who is interested. I thought I'd let you know since you seem like the type," he said. Dubie was a devout Christian and we had brief conversations about our faith in passing. "I'll be there! When is it?" I asked. "Uuuuuuh, right now!" he realized looking at his watch.


I followed Dubie out to the pavilion. Star hall was a former elementary school. In fact, locals still referred to it as "The Brown School"; as in, Thomas Brown Elementary. From the outside, if you didn't know a world class drum and bugle corps had invaded the place, you would think school was still in session. The ball fields and playgrounds were meticulously manicured. The pavilion was freshly painted and cleanly swept. I was disappointed at how poorly attended the devotional was. There were maybe 12 of us gathered. It played into the old Southern perception that God "lives" down South. It was a great devotional. It was just what I needed. It was there that I gained an even deeper respect for Bob Dubinski. I already respected him in the highest regard for his mad arranging and teaching abilities. Now I had seen the man that would serve as my spiritual guide throughout my journey in drum corps. To this day, I owe a great deal to this man.


I now had a means to center myself. I now felt as if I had settled into a routine. Rehearsals were rolling along fine. Star of Indiana was getting better fast! Occasionally, Bill Cook, the owner, would drop in with a cadre of corporate "big whigs" to show them what a wonderful thing drum corps was for kids. He was very good friends with John Cougar Mellencamp. Mellencamp's dad even came by once to watch rehearsal. I sat behind Mellencamp in a movie theatre in downtown Bloomington. I was going to see "Encino Man" with some friends of mine from the corps and we were tipped off by a ticket clerk that John Cougar was in "Thelma and Louise." I snuck in and sat in the seat right behind him and his female companion. I'm sure this is the dorkiest thing I have ever done. Famed Indiana University basketball coach Bobby Knight came to one evening rehearsal. I still remember being underwhelmed by his presence. These cameo appearances by important people made me feel special. It made me feel like I was a celebrity among celebrities.

Things were happening fast. We practiced loading the semi truck. We were issued our uniforms. We took a group corps picture. We chose our seat partners and bus seat. My seat partner was Kim Pass from Andover, Massachusetts. She was a "cool chick" kind of girl with a very East Coast flair. She wasn't my girlfriend, but I was not going to sit by a dude for three months! If it turned into something more... fine. If not... That was fine, too. There is one detail I've left out. Kim was in the pit too. This was not a good idea. It turns out that we wound up fighting like George Castanza's fictitious aging parents on the show "Seinfeld." As fate and irony would have it, she wound up kicking me out mid tour and I sat with Brent England... a dude. Where did we sit? Next to the bathroom on the bus. Crap. Literally.

We were all set for tour. We were on the bus. Star of Indiana 1991 was on the road. We were ready to conquer the world. I must admit, I was pretty geeked out. It was a feeling I hadn't experienced since my very first Christmas.


(Part 10 - Coming Soon...)

(PART 8) How DCI and Star of Indiana changed my life

(Make sure you read Part 7 before reading this.)

"When one door closes another door opens." Isn't that how it goes? Well, one door opened and here was another door opening at the same time. All of a sudden, I felt like a rockstar! I was in demand. That's what my ego was telling me. I'm THE MAN!!But, I had to remember. I could never DO the "cocky" thing. I tried it several times. As soon as I felt like I had arrived, I wanted to thump my chest like that famous ape that destroyed Manhattan in the movies. Every single time I tried that, God kicks me in the butt. I would always find myself in some embarrassing moment that reminded me that I am just an ordinary human being. Besides, I would never look good in a spandex suit with a cape. Just sayin'... 

As flattered as I was that Dr. F had thought of me, I had to decline. I knew I was about to embark on an experience that was worth more than money. I had leaped tall buildings in a single bound to get to where I was.(Ok, no more super hero references, I promise.) I couldn't turn back on my dream. I just couldn't. I called Dr. Fraschillo and politely thanked him for thinking of me and explained that I had to go with my gut, here. He completely understood. That made me feel better. You know, after that moment, I've never thought about the Disney opportunity until I got to this place in the timeline of writing this blog. 

I met Chris Prather at the Wal-Mart in Greenwood, Mississippi on Thursday, May 21, 1991 on a scorching late-Spring morning. His dad planned this entire trip for us. I am not sure if Chris' dad was ex-military, but this organization had all the earmarkings of a four-star General. The map Chris was wielding was carefully marked. The road route was meticulously traced with fluorescent yellow highlighter marker ink. Every rest area, restaurant, and point-of-interest was painstakingly notated with a precision that would make you toss your Garmin out of the window had it been invented at that time. Everything went as planned. 12 hours later we arrived in Indianapolis and got a hotel for the night. The next morning, Chris went on to Appleton, Wisconsin and my relatives met me at the hotel and took me to their apartment which was not far away.

As I sat in my cousin Annette's car, I longingly stared out the window. I had only met her once at a family reunion many years ago. There was really no connection other than we knew we were blood relatives and that meant everything. She and her husband were very hospitable and accommodating. Looking back on it now, I wonder if in that first car ride they thought I was a bit odd. I didn't say much, which was certainly a rarity in the Lymon bloodline. I mainly gazed at the urban Indianapolis skyline. My dream was being realized. In my mind, I was a dignitary being whisked around this concrete jungle to get to my important engagements. After 18 years of feeling like I had been tucked away in a corner of anonymity, my life was suddenly accruing purpose. I was going to be a part of something that was the best in the world!

We took the exit for my relative's neighborhood. As we seamlessly glided onto the cloverleaf of the off ramp, I could see a never-ending palette of suburban apartment communities. One after the other. Certainly something I had never seen before. All juxtaposed deliberately with a man-made lake as their nucleus. Although it was obvious each division was planned with a mathematicians eye, they each had a certain charm, complexity and originality created by the population of its individual inhabitants. Everything seemed so clean and orderly which was a stark contrast from the visual noisiness of the city streets we'd just escaped from. 

Suddenly, my wistful appreciation for this new territory was abruptly ended. The car comes to a screeching halt! A car swerved into the acceleration lane we were about to occupy. BAAAAAAMMMMM!!!!! My breathe is taken away. My skull is rattled like a giant maraca with boulders for beads. I feel the sudden, yet violent, restraint of my seatbelt holding me in place. We've been rear-ended! The first time in my life I had experienced a car accident; albeit minor in nature. I wasn't hurt. My cousin, Annette didn't appear to be hurt, either. We waited for the police and then we arrived at her apartment. I met her husband, who took me in as his own. He greeted us at the door holding a bulky FedEx package. "Dang, man! You've only been here 5 minutes and you already have mail!" he exclaimed in a joking manner. It was my music binder that my good friend Kevin Rytter had graciously FedExed to me, saving me from certain and sudden death at this camp. 

Eric "Fidge" Thompson in action.

The final camp went fine. At that point, I knew so many people that I felt like a vet. I was one of them. The transition from "guy off the street auditioning" to "member of Star of Indiana" was seamless for me. I ventured outside of the front ensemble and became good friends instantly with Eric Thompson, aka "Fidge", a tenor drummer from Cedar Rapids, Iowa. Eric was THE first biracial person I had ever met. Remember, I grew up in the Mississippi Delta. Black people and white people did not live in the same neighborhoods. We still had segregated proms at the high school I had just graduated from. Here was a guy with dual ethnicity that seemed to thrive unscathed. This fascinated me! This was a great social experience for me. After getting to know him, his race became insignificant to me. What meant more to me was how much we were just alike. Eric was a comedian, just like me. Eric seemed to have all of my quirks and idiosyncrasies. He was... ME! It was like I had a brother in another part of the country!

Everyone in the percussion was here. The Snares: Matt Stein from Westerville, OH. This was an easy-going guy who could have dropped his snare drum and modeled for GQ any day. Scott Walker a 2 year vet from Greenwood, Indiana. Scott was a pretty stoic and stern talking dude. He seemed very intense, but very likable and very cool once you broke the ice. Joel Poinsett, from Bedford, Indiana. Joel could easily be mistaken for any small town's paperboy. He was on the end of the snare line and caught the most crap from the staff. I always felt sorry for him. Dave Carbone from Cape Coral, Florida. Dave was a cross between a beach/surfer guy and a Jersey shore Italian. Brian Coley, a red head from Poland, Indiana. Brian was a jokester in the style of Beavis and Butthead before they were introduced to the world. I always called him "The Red Scurvy." He was affectionately known as "Rogue." Stacey Duggan, a third year member from Knoxville, Tennessee. Stacey was a bit of a rebel. He had a Southern accent so thick that EVERYONE (including me) made fun of it. Victor Gomez, from Whichita Falls, Texas. Victor was a go-getter that had no enemies as far as I could tell. He had a twin brother, Vincent, that was in the horn line. 

The Tenors: They were the 4 Stooges of the drumline. These guys were incredible players and incredibly funny. Eric Thompson. You've already met him. Dave Nirchl from Newburgh, Indiana. Dave was the smartest person in the corps. I wouldn't be surprise if he hasn't invented something we all need by now. Chanler Bailey from Morgantown, West Virginia. Chanler was our Yoda. He had been in the corps for four years. He always seemed to have this "old soul" aura about him. Dave Reeves from Greenwood, Indiana. Dave was fresh out of Center Grove High School. In fact, he missed part of move in to go to his prom. 

The Bass Drums: This was the first time I'd been introduced to bass drum "unity." They did everything together. They were in the lunch line in order. They wore the same hats. They slept with their heads together. I thought this was cool! So, I'll introduce them as a group. Jay Dunlap from Wayne, Michigan, Ron Dawson from  Marion, Indiana, Judd Strickley from Erlanger, Kentucky, Jonathan Barr from New Philadelphia, Ohio, and Alan Compton from Memphis, Tennessee. Alan came into the corps for the first time to play bass 5 at move in. Talk about a trial by fire!!! Alan became known as "Otto." On his first day at move in, John Corley the bass tech, asked what his name was. Alan, being nervous and having a mild but, noticeable Southern accent said, "Alan." John replied, "Otto?!?!, what kinda name is that, bruh?!" And, so it stuck. To this day my dear friend Alan Compton is known as "Otto." Over the course of tour, it became: "Otter", "Ottorino", "Otteaux" "Ah-Ah-Ah-Ah-tto... (sung in Gregorian chant)." No rest for the weary.

While in Rome, I had to do what the Romans did! A big tradition during move in was to go to the quarries. "Hey, Tony, you going to the quarries?" "Yo man, we're going to the quarries today!" "Hey, when are we going to the quarries?" This was the talk of the day. What the hell are "the quarries"?!?! "The Quarries" was an abandoned and defunct rock quarry site on the outskirts of Bloomington, Indiana. It was filled with natural rain water, rocks, trees, and old car. Yes, there was a car at the bottom of this water. The cliffs of this quarry had to be about 50 feet high. The water: about 20-30 feet deep. There was a big party there, led by veteran pit member Jeff Briney. He seemed to be the social chairman of the corps. If there was a party to be had, Jeff could have it organized in about 10 minutes!

What I'm about to tell you is one of these moments that every mom fears. Every mom hopes they have raised their child to have enough common sense and judgement to NOT do this. The MAIN event at the quarries was to jump off of this cliff into the water. A cliff that is 50 feet high! I WAS NOT DOING THIS!! I watched member after member get a running start and jump to what I knew was their impending death. Everyone started pressuring me to do it. I looked down at the water. There is NO margin of error! There is just a small window of clear water. In your decent, if you drifted slightly to the left you would meet a giant boulder. If you drifted slightly to the right, an even BIGGER boulder. If you drifted too far forward, you would hit the Chevy that was dumped at the bottom. Jeff Briney wasn't going to stand for this. He took the pressure to a whole new level. He took the psychologist approach. I felt like my manhood was a stake. 


I wish I could make this more heroic. I wish there was a way I could lie right now and make myself seem more macho. The truth of the matter is, I was terrified. I watched everyone jump off that cliff. Many times. Now, if I didn't jump, I would be known at the lamest dude ever. I had to do this now. The good thing was; no one was dead. So, my chances of survival were quite good. I walked up to the edge. I looked down into the stone-cradeled abyss. I had point men around the bottom ready to pluck me out of the water if I had a heart attack in mid air. 

I still can't believe I did this!!

"You'd better take a picture of this, man!" I squeamishly belted as I prepared for my runway taxi. I took a running start and... I jumped. I can still hear the wind whistling past my ears. The sudden feeling of weightlessness made my heart feel like it was separating from my chest. I stayed in the air for what seemed like an eternity! Just when I started to panic... Splooooooosh! I hit the water. It seemed as if I never stopped falling. I was falling at the same rate of speed, but the sensation changed. Suddenly, my decent stops. I'm not going back up. I start fighting my way to the surface in this surreal silence. As soon as I surfaced, I hear the cheers of everyone at the quarries. I did it. I did it! And, I was never doing that again. And, I didn't. 


The next day was the first full rehearsal at Indiana Univeristy Stadium. We had the privilege to rehearse there every day. The pit normally began rehearsals in the parking lot, then we moved to this parking garage under the stadium we affectionately referred to as "The Bat Cave." It was very dark and cave-like, and there were bats. Real bats that didn't care for the music of Resphigi being pounded out on mallet keyboard instruments. We were done with our morning block. It was time for us to do a percussion ensemble rehearsal in the stadium. The path to the field that was nestled at the stadium's floor was a steep hill that had not been paved since the 60's it seemed. There were serval potholes, cracks and crevices that served as a obstacle course. The horn line was in the end zone warming up as the pit caravanned down the slope like Nomadic desert travelers on a daily trek. The goal when you move as a drum corps pit is for no one to know that you are moving. We moved silently and stealthily. 


All of a sudden, my xylophone that I was assigned to move stopped moving. I, however, was still in motion. I heared a very distinct, "craaaaaack!!!!" The xylophone wheel was stuck in very tight crack. The instrument started to lose its balance! Just as I scurried to stabilize the out-of-control keyboard, it tumbles away from me. I have to tell you, we are at the top of this steep hill. The xylophone proceeded to roll over down this hill -end over end over end over end. It resembled a car accident in a 1980's cop show. I still can hear the dissonant glissandos of the keys as they clanky banged against each other. The horn line stopped playing and finally at the bottom of the field was a pile of wood, splinters, metal and xylo keys. A total loss.


I didn't know what to do. This was the worst thing anyone could do. Here it was in front of EVERYONE!! There was nothing I could do! I just ran down the hill as if someone else had committed this crime. I had a lump in my throat the size of a beach ball. I felt every emotion I'd ever had: fear, anger, disbelief, denial, sadness. I picked up the pile of splinters like a pet that had been run over by a car. I looked up and charging towards me was Eric Lund, the equipment manager! He is rushing towards me like a tornado or anger and profanity. In efforts to keep this blog "clean" I won't write his exact words. I remember him being restrained by some staff members. He was really going to kill me if they weren't there. I was feverishly trying explain my story. I had no story. I was careless and destroyed this instrument. 

It has taken me 20 years to admit to myself that I was about to cry. Not just cry, but hysterical "girl who was broken up with right before prom" kind of cry. I couldn't do that! I had just jumped the cliff!! I had been vindicated! I was a made man! I can't cry. So, I turned around... and I walked away. I left. In my mind, this was not to be. I was not supposed to be in this group. I was going home. I kept walking. I walked up the hill. I walked to the parking lot. I walked across the street. I walked down that street. No one knew where I was. I was giving up. This was too much for me. I saw a pay phone at a gas station. I was calling a cab. I was quitting. 


(Part 9 - coming soon...)

(PART 7) How DCI and Star of Indiana changed my life

(make sure you read Part 6 before reading this.)

Why. Why? Why?! Why!!!! Why was all of this happening to me? All I want to do is fulfill a dream! I want to improve my life. Isn't this what you're supposed to do? The "American Dream" says that you can be whatever you want to be no matter who you are or where you come from. Right? NO one mentioned at EVERY corner there was a road block. Alas, a detour sign. Was this God's way of telling me I'm not supposed to be here. That I really wasn't supposed to do this?? Certainly not! That's fools logic.


I've always told these stories about my experiences in this phase of my life. Everyone who has heard them has gotten a kick out of them. I mainly tell them to my front ensemble at Petal High School where I currently teach and have taught for the past 12 years. I use them as little motivational vignettes to break the monotony. I just realized after getting this far into telling these stories in chronological order; this all sounds very fantastical! It sounds like I'm making this up! Even as I'm writing this and reading it, it sounds "made-up" to me! Ha! I want to assure you that this all happened. It is all 100% true. 


Ok, back to the bus with Nasal Man...


I realized that this bus was in trouble. This guy is about to do something that endangers this driver, this bus and everyone on it. I think fast. I crouch down on the floor behind my seat while the crazy guy is walking forward to the driver. He can't see me. As he walked by, I sprung up and grab him by the jugular! The bus driver gets distracted looking at the action in the rear view mirror. What he doesn't see in front of us is an 18-wheeler that has stopped. The bus slams into the back of the semi truck throwing me and the crazy guy forward. The crazed bus passenger pulls out a knife and presses it to my throat drawing a thin line of blood that drips ever so slowly down my neck. Luckily, in the back of the bus is a pair of Marines who have been trained in Special Ops! Whew! They charge the front of the bus drawing their government issued assault weapons...


Ok, so, I DID just make all of that up. Sorry, I had to do that... I wanted to try my hand at Tom Clancy's style for a moment. Again, I apologize. I'm still a bit of a jokester. 


Here's what really happened:

The noseless "Phantom of the Greyhound" is standing there with this toy Transformer gun figurine. He pretended to be aiming this obvious toy at the driver. And just to be clear, I don't think we were in any "real" danger. This was truly a child's toy. The bus driver has had it! I certainly was over this. I couldn't deal with this guy for an entire trip. Not to mention, the site of him made me want to scoop my eyeballs out with a hot spoon. The driver went on as if this wasn't happening. He looked away from the rear view mirror and picked up his CB radio handset in an "Oh No He Dii-iin't" fashion. The driver started stoically barking out a series of codes and numbers to what appeared to be the home base of the Greyhound station. We unexpectedly pull over to a gas station. Waiting at the gas station were two Kansas City police cars with several officers awaiting our arrival like a British Royals coronation. As much as I want to dramatize the next part, it was as uneventful as a principal coming to a middle school classroom to retrieve an unruly pre-teen. The officers boarded the bus, the disruptive passenger walked forward and exited the bus with them. The bus driver got back on the road and we were on our way. You know? Now looking back on it, the other passengers seemed un-phased by this entire ordeal. 

The next camp posed another challenge. I went to buy my next ticket for my Hattiesburg-Columbus-Bloomington connection. I gave the ticket person my credit card to do what I'd done before. As I awaited my receipt and bus ticket, I was greeted with, "This card has declined, sir," said the ticket person blankly. Declined? What does that mean? The ticket person ran the card again. Again: declined. "Declined" means you don't have enough credit to make the purchase, I found out. I only had enough credit to get a one-way ticket. I buy it. I just had to figure out a way to get to Columbus, MS. Then, once we got back from camp on Sunday, I would catch the Greyhound back home. 

Alan Honeysucker

After all I'd gone through, I knew I could find a ride to Columbus. I knew I could. I went on my quest of "shaking down" my friends. I approached one of my good friends Alan Honeysucker, a trumpet player and music major from Madison, Mississippi. We had landed at Southern Miss at the same time. This was his first year there, too. Alan was a few years older than me. He had transferred from a community college in Southern California. He marched in The Concord Blue Devils in 1988 and 1989. Two of my favorite shows of all time! One night after a party at his house, I explained to him my troubles. "Man, I'll take you to Columbus. I'll pay for the gas. You just help me by driving up there and I'll drive the car back." he said. Yeaaahh!! I'm set, yet, again. I am on a streak of making a way out of no way. All went as planned. We arrived Thursday late in the night. We crashed on Steve Bennett's mom's floor. The next morning, Alan left for Hattiesburg; Steve and I left for Bloomington. I am still grateful to Mr. Honeysucker for this act of kindness. 


I finally figured out that I was going to need a cash flow. My credit card is maxed. The bills are needing to be paid. There are two more camps to get to. The corps fees are due. I can't sustain this financially at this point. This is when I launched my private lessons studio. I taught private lessons to anyone who would take them. I called every band director around the area to get student referrals. I amassed enough students to help at least pay the credit card bill down to where I could use it again. I couldn't get a "real" job and keep up with my school and the drum corps schedule. I had to be creative with how I was to generate funds. It was working. I was making enough cash from teaching lessons to make it over the "hump." This is a great lesson study in why a college freshmen with no job should not have a credit card. It was a means to an end, but certainly a poor means of accomplishing it. Years later, in 2006, we went to Hollywood, California for the Hollywood Christmas Parade with the Petal High School Band. We took the students to Universal Studios as a part of the trip. As we were leaving the park, there was that kiosk! Chase Visa - giving away free water bottles and T-shirts for anyone who would sign up. I stood in front of that kiosk and forbade any of my students from signing up. I felt it was my duty. It was my albatross. 


The next camp went without a hitch. I did my Greyhound connection as planned before. It is now May 1991. I had made it through all of the camps. Now it was time for move-in. It's time to go to Bloomington for good. I was departing my Southern roots to go live in my new midwestern home, only briefly, before becoming a musical gypsy. I was excited. I had a new connection to get to the move-in camp. Chris Prather,(remember him from the first camp?)my roommate, had accepted a position as a member/instructor for the Americanos Drum and Bugle Corps from Neenah, Wisconsin. I never understood why he did this. He had a spot in a Top 3 DCI corps and he gave it up to make very little cash to teach at a small corps that had about 50 members. Chris' parents had recently moved to Cleveland, Mississippi. That was only about 30 minutes from Greenwood, Mississippi, my hometown. He had to move in at Americanos at the same time I had to be in Bloomington. This was perhaps the most convoluted series of connections to get to Bloomington. Stay with me...


I needed to get a Greyhound bus back to my hometown of Greenwood, Mississippi. There, Chris Prather would drive to Greenwood from Cleveland. We would ride together up to Indianapolis, Indiana. We would get a hotel room and sleep there for the night. Chris would go on to Wisconsin. I had relatives that lived in Indianapolis. They would come and pick me up from the hotel and take me to the airport in Indianapolis where I would meet the Star shuttle. The Star shuttle would then take me to the corps hall. Sheesh. It never ends! 


It was the last day of school. Chris Prather, my roommate, had already left to go home to Cleveland, MS. I spent the last night in our vacant dorm room by myself. In the morning, I was going to catch the Greyhound bus back home to Greenwood, MS. I would be there for 5 days until Chris came to pick me up and we were off to drum corps land. My new girlfriend, Emily, agreed to come pick me up and take me to the Greyhound station. I got up the next morning eager to get this show on the road! It's getting dangerously close to the time I'm supposed to be at the station. I called Emily. No answer. I called again. No answer. I called 20 times! No Answer. It turns out that she had overslept. She had her phone turned off because she was in the middle of moving into a new apartment. NO! NO! NO! Please NO! I can't do this anymore! I just CAN'T miss my bus. I called my good friend Kevin Rytter. He was my Canadian compadre that was marching with Cavaliers that Summer. I explained the situation and he was there in 5 minutes. He dropped me off at the station. I got there right in time to put my luggage on the bus and get on. I sat on the bus and watched as he sped away in his micro sized  Toyota. Just as his car disappeared around the corner, I noticed in his hatchback: My binder with all of my music and all of my charts for Star of Indiana!!!! Come back!! NO!!!! Showing up to a camp without your binder and materials is an offense punishable by death!!! This is not happening... This is NOT happening...  


As I sat there on my steel chariot to my homeland, I reflected. My first year at Southern Miss was done. One great year behind me. I had managed to play in the snare line of the best college marching band in the state. I made it to 3rd chair in the wind ensemble and was awarded the band program's "Freshman of the Year." I had gotten to play on stage at CBDNA in Kansas City and now I was about to be in The Star of Indiana. Things were looking pretty good for this Delta kid returning home. My life had completely transformed from what it was one year ago. Opportunity seemed to be abundant and never-ending. I stared out the window of the motor coach as it blazed through the flat Delta terrain. Although I had only lived one year outside of this familiar land, things seemed new. The cotton populated countryside was fresh as if I were rediscovering it with different eyes. I was slightly overcome with nostalgia like an old war veteran returning stateside after a tour overseas. 

When I arrived home, I hugged my grandmother and tried to catch her up on all that was going on. I took a quick visit to see all of my relatives before I was off for the Summer. "Some man from your school called and he said it was very important. He left his number," she said as she handed me a small strip of crinkled paper baring her careful and deliberate handwriting. The note said, "Doctor Friskila. Very Important!" It had his office number on it. What could this be? Why is Dr. F calling me? The curiosity is killing me! I got on the phone, immediately. "Dr. F! This is Tony Lymon. You called?" I asked. "Yeah, look: I know you're going to go off to Star of Indiana soon, but I have an opportunity for you. My friend is the director of the College All-American Band that performs at Disneyland out in Anaheim during the Summer. They had a drummer that bailed on them and he wanted to see if I had a recommendation. Now look, this gig pays $600 a week and they put you up in a hotel at Disney and all of your meals are paid for...," he said. Whooooaaa... Holy wrench thrown in my plan! What do I do now? $600 a week!? That's more money than I had ever made in my entire life at that point! I would be an employee of Disney. I would be living and working at the Happiest Place On Earth! California! All expenses paid! I had known people that tried out for that band for several years and never made it. Here it was being handed to me on a silver platter. Not to mention how flattered I was that out of all the percussionists at Southern Miss, he offered the job to me. Turning it down would almost seem disrespectful. 


What do I do? Do I take this gig or fulfill the biggest dream of my life? What do I do?


(Part 8 - Coming Soon...)