Chapter 2

Chapter 2
Music in his Blood

"Hey, everybody, be quiet a minute and listen to this. You're not gonna believe it!" I cried excitedly one day when Rory was about six months old. It was a Sunday afternoon, and we were all at my grandparents' house, where Gram had just made us a big, delicious dinner as usual, before we made the weekly trip to the school in Aberdeen.

Everyone stopped their conversation and listened quietly. I jiggled Rory on my lap to keep him awake. It was past his nap time, and I knew he'd be asleep any minute. "Okay, now do it, again," I coaxed my brother. "You remember how to sing, right?"

Slowly and clearly I began to hum the tune for "Jesus Loves Me," which I'd been singing to him a few seconds earlier. Rory laid his head back down on my shoulder contentedly, glad to be hearing his favorite lullaby again.

"No, you can't go to sleep, yet," I pleaded as I jiggled him to keep him awake. "First you have to sing 'Jesus Loves Me' like you did a minute ago."

Everyone continued to wait in anticipation, but nothing happened. "What did he do, anyway?" Kim demanded to know.

"He was humming it!" I said in frustration. But I could tell by the silent response that no one really believed me.

"I was rocking him to sleep, and I thought he was napping, so I stopped singing," I explained further. "I guess he wanted me to keep humming it, because all of a sudden, his little head came up, and he started humming it, himself."

"How could he know the tune?" Kim asked skeptically. "He's just a baby!"

"Quiet, he's doin' it again," I exclaimed.

They all listened attentively, and sure enough, as though to prove my point, Rory began humming the song once more.

"Wow! He's really doing it!" Kim breathed in wonder. "It's right in tune, and even the right rhythm, and everything."

Rory hummed the song all the way to the end, and was rewarded by loud and long cheers and applause from his entire family. Tickled to have so much attention, he promptly did it all over again, and got the same result.

"Now do it for me," Kim insisted, grabbing her brother away from me. Rory bounced gleefully in her arms, and obligingly, began to hum the entire song for the third time.

"Well, I'll be darned," Gramp declared unbelievingly. "He is singing it, sure enough."

"There's no denying that kid has music in his blood," Dad agreed.

Needless to say, we were all very enthralled with this most recent accomplishment from our very own baby. Kim and I hardly gave him any peace during the whole trip to Aberdeen. We kept experimenting with him, to see if he'd still remember what he'd done after waking from a little snooze, and to test whether he might have stored any other songs in his brain, besides Jesus Loves Me. We could hardly wait to get back to school, in order to impress the other girls in the dorm with our incredibly talented little brother.

As the months went by, Rory's musical appreciation continued to become even more apparent to the family. Shortly after learning to walk, he started dancing to music. Whenever Mom turned on the radio, or Kim and I pulled out the bench to play the piano, Rory would begin to spin around enthusiastically in
time with the music. He'd even join in vocally, as well. He invented a way of modulating his voice to match whatever rhythm was being played, kind of like having his own portable drum-set at his disposal for whenever the need arose.

Soon Rory began to accompany our frequent jam sessions with ice-cream buckets and spoons. Pie plates made great cymbals and/or snare drums, and different-sized containers were used for the different sounding drums. This makeshift drum kit could be quickly gathered and assembled at a moment's notice. He'd beat them so hard that the buckets never lasted very long, but this gave our dad a good excuse to eat plenty of dessert.

When Rory was about two, he began traveling with the family band, so he could sing a couple of songs at the concerts. He loved being able to sing in the microphone, and hearing all the applause. He didn't ever seem to be nervous or shy, and you never knew what he might divulge to the audience at any of
these performances. Mom always joked that it's a good thing we didn't have any big family secrets, because they wouldn't stay secret for long.

"And now I believe it's time for my little son, Rory to come up here and do a number or two for you all," Dad might say by way of introduction. That was Mom's cue to bring Rory up to the front.

"Testing, one two three four," Rory said into the mike, as he'd heard Dad do several times during set-up.

"What are you going to sing for us tonight?" Dad asked him.

"It's bubbling," Rory replied promptly. "And I have to do a good job, or the girls said they would pull my hair."

This remark was followed by a burst of laughter from the people in the audience. Dad cleared his throat and tried to change the subject. "And how old
are you now, Rory?"

"I'm two years old," he stated without hesitation. "And my sisters are 12, and you're 39."

More laughter. Rory waited patiently for it to die down before delivering the punch line. “And Mom is 32,” he declared emphatically.

"All right then, thank you," Dad said above the laughter and smattering of applause. "Let's go ahead and sing your song now."

Which Rory subsequently did. Afterward, while the last notes were still being played, and before the people even had a chance to clap for him, Rory asked loudly, "Now can I have my bubble-gum, Mom? I did a good job, right?"

"Yes, you can have your gum now," Mom whispered, as she hurriedly removed him from the spotlight, amidst more laughter and applause.

One day, shortly after he turned three, I was sitting with Rory on my lap, telling him a story while Kim played some familiar melodies on the piano. I could tell he was distracted by something and not really paying attention to my story. "What's the matter?" I asked him.

"That song Kim is playin' doesn't sound right," he said in a puzzled tone, after listening intently to the music for several minutes.

I shrugged. "It sounds pretty much the same as always to me."

"No, it should go like this," Rory said, humming the same tune Kim was playing, except in a higher key. "That's how it is on the radio."

"Oh, that's just because Kim must be playing in a different key than it sounds on the radio," I explained. Then I stopped short, as what Rory had just said began to sink in. "Wait a minute," I said incredulously. "How do you know what key the song is supposed to be played in, anyway?"

"I just do," he answered matter-of-factly, as though there were nothing unusual about having this skill. "Don't you know how it should sound?"

"Hey, Kim, stop playing a minute," I exclaimed excitedly. "I can't get over this! I think Ror can tell keys apart!"

We later learned that the correct term for this ability was to have "perfect pitch." At the time, though, we weren't even aware that any other humans had ever done such a thing! So Rory seemed like a true musical genius to us, indeed! We did have reason to be amazed, however, because being able to identify the different notes audibly is a gift which only a very few people are innately given. And for Rory to be able to demonstrate this knowledge at such a
young age was quite remarkable, to be sure!

Kim played several different notes on the piano at random, just to see if she could trick our brother. "Now, can you still tell me what key you sing "Jesus Loves Me" in at our concerts?" she quizzed him.

Without hesitation, Rory started singing. Kim found the key of C where we normally played the tune, and began playing along with him.

"He's right!" I marveled. "And he didn't even have to think about it."

"Wow! This is sure something!" Kim said, hardly able to believe what she was hearing, either. Then, unable to resist finding out just how much Rory's brain could take in, she played a C and told him what it was called. Then she went one note higher, and explained this was the key of D.

"Just like D comes after C in the alphabet," I put in. (Rory had been able to recite his ABC's for a year already.)

Next, Kim played a series of C and D notes in several different octaves, in order to test Rory's ability to identify them correctly. He never missed even one.

"I bet I know what the next note is called," Rory said triumphantly. "E!"

"That's right!" I confirmed proudly--covering his head with kisses and giving him a big squeeze.

It wasn't long before Rory could name all of the musical notes, including the sharps and flats! Often he would remind us of where a song should be played, or proudly correct his dad when he'd accidentally hit a wrong chord on the guitar.

"Dad, you have to go to a G when it gets to the chorus," Rory told him. "I think this song would be easier if you would put the capo on the 2nd fret."

Whenever Rory heard a new song for the first time, his initial fascination was with the musical aspect. He would pick the melody apart piece by piece, until he was able to tell you precisely which instruments were played in any given section. If it was a song he really liked, he usually knew exactly
what notes each instrument played throughout the entire selection, as well. Once he had the music down to a science, it was then time to focus on the lyrics.

One day, Mom found him sitting next to the radio, tears streaming down his face. "Why, Ror, what's the matter?" she asked in concern. Although he was sensitive by nature, it certainly wasn't like him to be crying without a good reason.

"That little boy is so mean to his dad," Rory sobbed.

"What little boy?" Mom asked, completely bewildered by what he said.

"That boy on the song," Rory answered through his tears. "He won't even open the door and let his dad come into the house."

"What do you mean?" Mom asked, still puzzled.

Rory sniffled and attempted to calm down a little. "That man in the song keeps saying, 'Honey, honey, won't you open the door?' And then he says, 'This
is your sweet daddy, don't you love me no more?' And the poor man is cold, and has to sleep on the floor, and everything, but his son just stands there and won't let him in!" The tears began to flow heavily again, as Rory recounted the tragic story.

Mom hugged him and patiently tried to comfort her own little boy by assuring him that it was just a song, and that it was actually talking about a not-so-nice husband who was always trying to convince his wife to take pity on him. Rory was somewhat mollified, but the incident showed us all how literal Rory was,
and also made us aware of just how closely he was paying attention to the things going on around him, and taking them to heart.

As Rory grew, his interest in music continued to develop even more. Looking back, I can now see that he definitely wasn't your typical three-year-old. At the time, though, he was just my little brother, Ror. Nothing more, nothing less. Without realizing it, we were all subconsciously helping him to stretch
his potential as far as it could go. He seemed always able to deliver whatever we required of him, so we simply continued to keep expecting more and more from him, in countless little ways.

Before long, Rory was harmonizing with us on some of our songs, as well as singing several of his own. One of his favorite pastimes was when Kim or I or both of us would sit down at the piano and let him join in on his kazoo or wood-knockers, and lately even the harmonica--which was his most recent fascination.

Whenever we were on the road going to and from school or traveling to one of our concerts, we were still not without music. If the eight-track player wasn't in use, the three of us kids would often burst into song ourselves, doing a three-part a capella trio.

If we weren't singing, Kim and I would spend long hours during road-trips playing travel-games with our brother, such as 20-questions or memory games. We rarely "let him win" unless it was deserved. But as though determined not to be outdone by mere sisters, he proved to be good competition. Sometimes
Kim and I would make rhythmic patterns by clapping our hands, and see if Rory could copy what we did. If he succeeded, we'd make the patterns more complicated.

Besides games like this, we might keep occupied by indulging in some other form of educational activity—teaching Rory about rhyming words, opposites, synonyms, or syllable identification. When this became boring, Kim and I would sometimes become a little more mischievous with our forms of entertainment.

"Ror, do you know who I am?" I would ask in a high-pitched voice.

"Is that you, Henrietta?" Rory asked, always eager to play with one of his imaginary friends, which Kim and I created for him.

"No, I'm someone else," the voice replied.

"Who are you?" Rory wanted to know.

"Guess."

"I don't know; if you're not Henrietta, I give up."

"I told you! Guess!" I shot back at him.

"I did guess," Rory said patiently.

"No! I don't mean that!" I insisted. "My name is Guess!"

"Mom," Rory called up to the front seat in frustration, "Kon is buggin' me!"

"Knock it off, Konnie!" Mom warned tiredly, without much hope that her reprimand would be heeded.

"But I did tell you who I am," I said innocently to my brother. "I'm Guess!"

Rory thought for a few seconds. "You mean your name is Guess?" he finally asked hopefully.

"Guess!" was my reply.

"Your name is Guess!" he said triumphantly.

"Why should I guess? I already know my own name," I said.

"No! I don't mean you should guess," he countered. "I just mean I'm telling you your name; it's Guess!"

"Very good," I finally conceded. "You're a pretty sharp little boy, you know that?"

"Now, would you like to know who I am?" Kim asked in a similar high-pitched voice.

"Who?" Rory asked, always game for a new challenge.

"Nobody," my sister answered in the high voice.

"Oh, so you're Nobody!" Rory exclaimed knowingly.

"I'm somebody; why did you say I'm nobody?" Kim asked in an offended tone.

"You guys!" Mom said, with almost as much exasperation as Rory must have been feeling. "Stop it now."

"I didn't mean you aren't anybody," Rory explained carefully. "I just mean your name is Nobody."

"You're right," Kim consented. "What a smart boy."

"Now Ror, remember to sing loud and clear in the mike tonight," I reminded him sternly. "Last time you mumbled a couple of your words, and people couldn't understand what you were saying!"

"And you also sang a few of your notes a little bit too high, at the beginning of 'It's Bubbling'," Kim added. "You can sing better than that."

"I did that on purpose," Rory admitted. "Just to be funny, and see how it would sound."

"Ror, you know better than that!" I accused, giving his hair a tug. "You don't ever be silly in the microphone!"

Undaunted, Rory took a sip from his pop-bottle. "Hey, I got this bottle to be in the key of C!" he announced happily. "Kim, if you drink a little more
of yours, you can make an E note, and Kon's is almost full, so she can be G! Then we can make a nice chord when we blow in our bottles at the same time!”

"Or we could make C, D and E, and play ‘Mary had a Little Lamb’ like we do with that neat push-button telephone at Debbie's house," Kim suggested.

When we got to wherever we were going, Kim and I would usually go off exploring the new church or building where we would be doing the concert. Rory, on the other hand, always had to be in the thick of whatever was going on. He was very curious, and had lots of questions for Dad while the equipment was
being set up--soaking up every bit of knowledge he could about all the aspects of what went on behind the scenes.

"Where do you plug in your guitar?" he might ask.

"Right here," Dad would reply, taking his hand and showing him which connection fit into which socket in the amplifying equipment.

"Hmm," Rory said, intrigued. "What would happen if you put it in this other hole?"

Rory was always on hand to help tune up the instruments and get them balanced correctly, too.

"That second string needs to be a little bit higher, Dad," he would say. "And the next one is flat, too. How did you ever tune your guitar before I was born?"

"It took a lot longer; that's for sure," Dad admitted.

"And do you still remember that new chord I showed ya the other day?" Rory asked, wanting to be certain there would be no goofs when it came time to perform.

Dad thought for a minute. "Not really. Which song was that again?”

"Remember, the girls wanted to try going to that new-fangled minor chord during the chorus of 'Try a Little Kindness,'" Rory reminded him. "It's pretty much like a regular A chord, but your third finger just moves down one fret."

Ironically enough, Rory's favorite type of music as a child was waltzes and polkas--probably because he heard so much old-time music whenever he visited his grandparents' house. Grandpa began letting him experiment with his mouth organs, just as he had with me several years earlier. He would let Rory
touch his face as he played so Rory could see how he moved the harmonica for the different notes--exhaling for some and inhaling for others.

Rory could often be found sitting next to Gramp as he would pick the guitar and sing his favorite songs from when he was a boy. Sometimes Rory would kneel in front of Grandpa and practice strumming along with him.

"Can I try to do it myself?" Rory begged, as he carefully took the guitar from his grandpa and tried to wield the cumbersome object as easily as Gramp had done.

"It's still too big and heavy for you to handle," Grandpa admonished. "You'll have to wait until you're a little older."

But Rory had an idea. "Not if I do it like this," he said as he laid the guitar down across his lap and rested his fingers on top. "Now I can reach the frets a lot easier, too. Otherwise my hand was too little to get around the neck of the guitar

"Hmm," Gramp said thoughtfully "I don't know if that will work or not. I've never heard of anybody doing it like that. And anyway, you have it laying backwards right now. You should turn it this way." He picked up the guitar and positioned it so that the neck of the guitar was on Rory's left side, rather than on his right.

Rory obligingly strummed a few notes, but then decided to put the guitar back the way it had been a few moments earlier. "I like it better with the frets
over here," he told Grandpa in a matter-of-fact tone. "I guess I'm just more used to it, because that's how it is for me whenever I kneel in front of you. And I like strumming with my other hand."

Grandpa laughed. "Well, you have plenty of time to figure it all out," he said. "Just keep working on it, and I'm sure that someday you'll be a star.”