Crackerjack Bonus Epilogues: Part 1, Oberlin 2015

If you've read my book, Crackerjack Bands and Hometown Boosters: The Story of a Minnesota Man, you may have noticed that it doesn't have a prologue or an epilogue. Originally, it had both.

An earlier draft of the book contained a prologue called Prelude: Des Moines 1931. It told the story of the time the St. Cloud Boys' Band traveled to Des Moines with a brown bear for the 1931 U.S. Junior Chamber of Commerce Convention.

There are lots of opinions out there regarding whether books should have a prologue, and there are good reasons for and against including them. Although I did love the prologue, I ultimately decided to cut it and plunge readers immediately into Chapter 1. I incorporated most of the prologue into Chapter 18: On the Sunny Side of the Street.

Earlier drafts of the book also contained an epilogue. The first one I wrote was about the visit I made to Oberlin College in 2015 with Sebastian. It was a combined college visit for Sebastian and research trip for me. Although I liked the piece, I wasn't sure it was quite right for the book. So I ended up writing a second epilogue called Coda: "All Children Should Be Taught Music." I liked that piece, too, But in the final editing process I decided to cut it and leave readers with the emotions and sentiments that conclude Chapter 27: Shalom.

I'm curious to know what you think about prologues and epilogues, as a reader or as a writer. You can also let me know what you think of my cut epilogues! The Oberlin one is included here, and I'll include the second one in my next blog post.

Sebastian with Little G, October 2015, Oberlin, Ohio

Coda: Oberlin 2015

The first floor of the restaurant bustles with lively patrons, so Sebastian and I take the narrow stairs to the second floor and sit at a table for two by the window, next to the exposed brick walls. Through black lace curtains, I spot a bike shop across the street. It makes sense; numerous bicycles of various colors are locked up in racks in front of most of these historic downtown buildings. This town of 8,286 people is much smaller than Northfield, but it exudes a familiar collegiate vibe.

Sebastian orders a crab cake sandwich with a side of tator tots and a root beer; I choose a Thai chicken sandwich, a side salad drizzled with mango lime dressing, and a glass of house red wine. Our meal is cheaper, and much tastier, than our airport lunch. I try not to stare too closely at our server's sleeve tattoo, although it intrigues me, or at his man bun, which for reasons I don't understand has become the fashion among some millennials. Yes, I am old, I acknowledge to myself, with my eldest child already in college, and my middle child headed there soon.

Where Sebastian will go remains a mystery. It is fall break of his senior year of high school, and Oberlin College is one of ten Midwestern liberal arts colleges on his "possible" list. He has come to campus for an interview with an admissions counselor and a tour, and I have come along as a supportive mom.

That's partly true. I also have my selfish reasons. Like so many of our family trips over the past eight years, this one has a research connection. I have wanted to visit Oberlin ever since I learned that my paternal great-grandfather, G. Oliver Riggs, attended its music conservatory in the late 1880s and early 1890s. While Sebastian plays the role of prospective student, I hope to resolve a few nagging questions: Did G. Oliver officially graduate from Oberlin? If so, when, and if not, why not?

At the table next to us, two young men with facial hair, casually dressed in jeans and flannel shirts, are having an animated intellectual conversation. I can hear enough of their words to know that they are talking about Ideas, with a capital I — not about sports or about getting wasted. I think: That's a good sign. I could totally see Sebastian hanging out here.

Sebastian, too, has picked up on the nearby conversation. He looks at me from across the table and smiles.

"College is going to be great," he says with enthusiasm.

His smile vanishes and a look of concern comes over his face.

"You aren't going to feel bad if I go farther away for college, are you?" he asks. "I heard you telling someone that I wanted to get out of town. You've said that a couple of times."

His comment stops me for a second. I have consciously tried not to let my personal feelings influence his decision, or his perception of the schools he's considering. I have tried to follow my dad's mantra in urging Sebastian to "keep his options open" for as long as it makes sense. Despite my intentions, though, I realize he may have misinterpreted statements I've made about his college search.

"No, I won't feel bad," I say, with sincerity. "I will miss you, wherever you go, but your dad and I want you to do what is best for you, and go where you feel it's the best fit."

He looks relieved, so I keep an additional thought to myself: sure, it would be fun if he decided to enroll here, and follow in G. Oliver's footsteps. But that alone is a silly reason for him to choose this school over the other contenders.

How G. Oliver ended up at Oberlin is one of the mysteries I'm unlikely to solve, even if I continue my research for another ten years. I don't know why he chose Oberlin, or whether he considered any other music conservatories. Did he and his parents sit down over a meal and discuss his higher education options? Possibly. Did Jasper and Rebecca worry about sending their son to a school 980 miles from home? Probably. All I knew for sure was that they didn't have to fill out the pesky FAFSA, and G. Oliver didn't have to worry about his ACT scores. Neither existed in the late 1880s.

The server brings me the bill, and after I calculate the tip, I do another calculation in my head: When G. Oliver left his home in Kansas and traveled to this campus for the first time, likely by train, he was 16 years old, one year younger than Sebastian.

I wake up before my alarm the next morning feeling excited and nervous. I try to picture Sebastian's interview and wonder if I should give him any last-minute tips. I wonder if 30 minutes will give the interviewer enough time to grasp the essence of this young man I love so much, whether his passion for history and his interests in music and world events will come off well, whether his tendency to over-explain will be seen as annoying or enduring.

When Sebastian and I are both dressed and ready to go, we stroll over to the campus, passing a few buildings that date back to G. Oliver's time. We part ways at the college library. I wish him good luck with his interview, and he wishes me good luck with my research.

A few days earlier, when I made an appointment to visit the archives, the assistant archivist broke the news to me via email: according to her records, G. Oliver did not actually graduate from Oberlin. This surprised me, because for many years I had believed that he did, based on the scant information I'd gathered. I went back through my materials more closely and noticed that G. Oliver referred to "getting his education" at Oberlin but did not specifically use the word "graduated."

It was also possible that the school's records were wrong. I wanted to be sure, either way.

The archival assistant, Louisa Hoffman, is prepared for my visit. I compliment her on her first name, and she shows me to a long wooden table where three boxes of files await. For the next two hours, I gently sift through file folders containing concert programs and other ephemera, checking for G. Oliver's name and anything else that might yield clues about his time at Oberlin — which began in the fall of 1886, concluded in 1891 or early 1892, and did not include the 1888-89 term (that's when he took a break to earn more tuition money by directing and playing in bands in Nebraska and Iowa).

My heart races when I find the 1891 commencement program, but disappointment replaces exhilaration when I see that G. Oliver's name is not among the nine graduates listed. I check the month listed on the front: June. I know that he attended the school at least through the winter of 1891, so I look for the 1892 program. Aha! June 20, 1892. This one lists only three graduates: two women and one man. The man's name, Fred Ingersoll, is familiar, and I realize I've seen it on an 1891 concert program, when he and G. Oliver played together in the conservatory orchestra. Even though it makes no sense, time-wise, I check the commencement programs for 1893, 1894, then backtrack to 1890, 1889. Still no G. Oliver. The college records must be correct; he did not graduate.

It's almost time for the campus tour, so I decide to take a research break. On my way out of the archives, I stop by Louisa's desk and mention my confusion regarding graduation. She tells me that most conservatory students in those days did not earn degrees. It required taking an extra year of private lessons and giving a public recital. Some students discovered they could get a job without the diploma, and others had to quit school when they ran out of money.

I shake my head and smile as I stride down the sidewalk toward the admissions building. The situation made me think of a scene in The Music Man, when Harold Hill claims to have credentials from the Gary Conservatory of Music's non-existent "Gold-Medal Class of Aught-Five." But in this case, G. Oliver hadn't tried to con anyone. I had just misinterpreted his credentials.

It was likely that I would never stop trying to understand the G. Oliver story. I would keep finding ways to connect his life, and the lives of my other ancestors, to my own. They were my perpetual traveling companions.

When I find Sebastian, I tell him about G. Oliver's non-existent degree from the "Gold-Medal Class of '91," and, knowing the Music Man story, he smiles broadly. He says that his interview went OK, but what he's more excited to tell me is that he ran into his high school friend Amanda, who is also on campus for an interview and tour.

He talks animatedly about his morning, and I am reminded of my dad, who also has an uncanny ability to go anywhere and find someone he already knows. As Sebastian and I wait for the tour to start, I look around at the other prospective students and their parents, and I feel myself relax for the first time that day.

Whether Sebastian decides to go to Oberlin or someplace we haven't yet visited, I am confident that he will thrive. He is ready to write his own story.