Back Home Again in Indiana

On Wednesday, I stayed on campus later than usual so that I could attend a public presentation by Ben Vu, a successful and inspirational Ball State alumnus. It was a good opportunity for me to stop by the library to pick up some early sword and sorcery books that I learned about in my new copy of XNOO #1. As usual, I took the stairs.

The stairwells of Bracken Library are grey and stuffy. They are purely utilitarian, devoid of any attempt at beauty. Every time I take the stairs, I reflect on the many times I have encouraged my students to use those barren walls for guerilla artwork—who would even know?

Two books in hand, descending the stairs from the fourth floor, I was in high spirits, and so I began humming to myself. The acoustics astonished me. The slightest note rang grandly. The boxy stairwell is truly an echo chamber. A song spun up in my head, a somber ballad about a man singing alone in a stairwell. But I did not open my lips. I hummed my invented melody ever so softly, lest… lest what, exactly? I did not want to disturb any other evening stairwalker, even knowing there would be none. I think, mostly, I was afraid that someone would find me singing in the stairwell. My recent reading of Plutarch’s How to Resist Pressure came to mind, and I passed through the doors to the ground floor with a sincere sense of dysopia.

Bracken Library recently installed self-checkout kiosks, but I handed my books to the lone librarian. I see him there regularly, and he is quick to join in friendly smalltalk. He agreed that sometime one needs early 20th century fantasy stories to balance out “work” readings.

Walking back to the Robert Bell Building, I tried to remember the last time I encountered anyone making music on campus besides at School of Music events. The day I was attacked by an enraged Canada goose last year, I sought solace under a tree where an undergraduate was plucking on his acoustic guitar. He had acknowledged, without emotion, that this particular goose attacked everyone who approached the pedestrian bridge. From where he sat, he could simply watch it happen. The fact that he asked if I was okay makes me think he was a detached creative type and not a schadenfreude junkie.

Besides that, I cannot remember encountering anyone making music together outside of rehearsals and concerts. Everyone has headphones or earbuds now—everyone is consuming music all the time. When I ask my students to go 24 hours without a screen, one of the first things they comment upon is the lack of prerecorded music. I don't remember anyone mentioning filling the void with sounds of their own.

Just over a hundred years ago, my great grandfather—my namesake—helped found a social club specifically for singing. Well, probably for drinking and singing, but definitely for singing. Legend has it that they founded the club after showing up tipsy for the Christmas Midnight Mass choir and being reprimanded by the pastor.

The world needs more drinking and singing.

All roads lead me back to G. K. Chesterton, who is at once my inspiration and my foil. There are days when this melancholic can almost understand his joy. Chesterton’s The Flying Inn is a veritable paean to the collective delight from which song spontaneously springs. Let me sit with him and Belloc and enjoy laughter and red wine.

Walking to Wednesday night's presentation, I noticed that there are no pianos between Robert Bell and the Ball Communications Building. I suppose one should not expect there to be any pianos. But if there were a piano, it would mean something. It would be a sign. It would be an invitation.

“Back Home Again In Indiana” was written in 1917 by James Hanley and Ballard MacDonald. I have been playing it on piano out of The Real Book Volume II. The Real Book has no lyrics, so I looked for a lead sheet with lyrics online. The search is representative of the state of things: despite the song’s being in the public domain, there are no free folios, but many people sell you one. Undeterred, I found my mup user guide and made my own song sheet.

Yesterday morning, I carried my spare six-string to the office and printed out twenty copies of the song. I distributed the song sheets at the beginning of each of my three classes, informing the students that we were going to start with a sing-along. And then we sang. Most were sotto voce, but a few really got into it, not because they were talented singers but because they were having a good time.

I forgot to ask for the song sheets back after the second class, and several students kept their copies. Good. It was easy enough to print some more, and I used that opportunity to bring my guitar into the main office. I told the staff there that I was starting each class with a sing-along, and I asked if they would like to do one as well.

“Yes.” Kim said.

“Then here’s your song sheet,” I replied, handing one over.

“Wait, now?”

“Yes.”

The department chair came out of her office, and we sang the song once through. There was a new student employee in the office yesterday. She pointed out that this was not in the job description.

Only one student asked why we sang. I told her it was because culture is not someone else. We are the culture. We make the culture. We make it the way we want it to be. We are the dreamers of dreams.