Brock

"I am 88 years old and my mind is not as not as sharp as it used to be," he declared truthfully in that crisp familiar voice I know so well. We were leaning over his dog-eared score of the Hallelujah Chorus and I had a pink highlighter in my hand.
"Just color in the main themes as they appear," he instructed. "My eyes can't make out the notes anymore, but I can follow the highlighting!" His voice peaked with triumphal glee at outwitting Mother Nature (or Old Man Time, more appropriately). If the Good Lord lends him another two weeks, he will again conduct the closing number of the biggest seasonal concert in the area.
Every music school has its unforgettable characters and the Freshman Class of '84 met ours during the opening choir rehearsal of freshman orientation. That lively and authoritative voice, laced with proper English, came zipping from the podium straight into our impressionable ears. It came packaged in the frenetic, wiry, bristly and bustling persona of Brock McElheran, professor of choral music. The choir warmed up by briskly massaging each others shoulders.
"About FACE!" he bellowed, and we efficiently switched sides to rub another chorister's neck. He tapped his stick on a metal stand and silently zeroed in on a late-comer, giving the poor soul the "Brock Stare-Down" until he (or she) was in their seat with their score open to the proper page. Absolutely withering, it was. This was followed by a lofty speech that left me reeling with the honor of carrying on the school legacy. I wasn't too sure I was up to it, but inwardly I resolved to give it my best shot.
Conversation with any Crane alum wouldn't be complete without a "Brock Story" or two. There was the time he stood on his head in counterpoint class to demonstrate a hidden theme. Or the famous incident where he was ruddy bloody late (horrors!) for a dress rehearsal and he crawled through the second violin section while waving a white hanky on the end of his baton. His rants. His passionate speeches. Tales of conducting-gone-wrong, sopranos flowing dresses being caught on off-stage nails, tenors whose pants fell down.
Twenty-five years later, this teaching/conducting legend asks for my help. It involved picking him up, bringing him to the college, and reviewing entrances and rhythms with him.
"I'll pay you for your time!" he asserted. I had hoped he had forgotten. But after a few hours of walking through the score, he ordered me to pull a twenty dollar bill from his wallet. I protested until it became embarrassing, but he refused to budge.
"How do you know I won't take a fifty?" I countered.
"I'll know." he insisted craftily, and I believed him. After helping him with his overcoat and nervously hovering over him as he maneuvered down two flights of stairs ("elevators are for old people"), I carefully delivered him to his front door.
"Won't you join us for tea?" he inquired hopefully. I politely declined, but assured him I could stay another time. He directed me (as a conductor should) how to back out of his driveway and then took an aggressive stance while pointing in the direction of the road. He cupped his hands to his mouth and shouted something over the frigid wind, overcoat whipping around his slight frame.
"Oh," he bellowed, "and keep the change!"