The Wallace DePue Stories

The Wallace De Pue Stories

AAUS Library Room Page 1

In Our House, Piano is spelled Mulhausen By Wallace Earl De Pue, Sr.

Chapter One

My father was a barber. He was a perfectionist when he was cutting hair and he didn't care how long it took him to get it right for every customer. He worked in a shop for Bill Thompson, another barber who was Dad's best friend. Bill saw to it that Dad had the freedom to pursue his real interest, training prize fighters. Dad was safe from losing his job at the shop.

Dad was only 5'2" tall. As a boy, he had nearly killed himself eating peanuts. His allergy to goobers stunted his growth. Even though he was short, he was very strong. He was also intelligent. When men showed up at the barbershop, they either wanted a haircut or they wanted to bet money that Dad could not escape a wrestling hold known as "a full Nelson." One man after another failed to hold the "Shorty." Sometimes Dad's veins would pop out in his head as he exerted his strength, but he would always escape his adversaries and claim his money.

Even though I was only six, I remember when Dad was bringing fighters into the house where we lived, and training them in the large, empty bedroom right above our dining room. Mom would call Dad to supper when the food was nice and hot. Usually, the family had to begin without him. On one occasion, Dad's fighter was punching the heavy bag and dancing around above the dining room ceiling when plaster pieces fell into the food on our table. When that happened there was a fight between Mom and Dad. They loved one another dearly, but it was hard to believe when I saw them go at it. Mom was all Dad could handle, even as strong as he was. Her Italian temper made her formidable in battle. Mom and Dad ended their marriage when I was only six years old.

After Dad and Mom were divorced, Mom moved into our first stable home. The old Victorian house had a basement, two stories and a full attic apartment where Bud Pemberton, our new boarder, stayed. Up to that time, we had moved from one house to another.

The previous tenant of our new house had decided that the huge, heavy, Mulhausen upright piano was too much trouble to move when they left. The instrument attracted me immediately. I would sit and make sounds that were always floating through my head. Before very long, Mom believed that I needed piano lessons, but there was no money for them. Mom was a natural musician who had once taken free piano lessons from a nun; however, she didn't want to risk teaching me. Mom used to sit at the keyboard and sing with her pretty voice while accompanying herself. She could read music.

I entered Fair Avenue Elementary School. The very first day of school, I heard a young girl, Jane Ann Howe, sing a song to celebrate the beginning of school. She sounded like an angel! "Oh, if I could only sing like that," I thought. After the first day, school became torture for me.

In those days, it was very unusual for a child to wear eyeglasses, so no one could guess why I was failing in the first grade. The school held me back for two terms! Mrs. Dean, my teacher supposed that I was retarded. Finally, one of Mom's private customers, the wife of an optometrist, suggested that I should have my eyes tested. Her husband did Mom a favor. Mom was shaken when the doctor told her that I would have to have glasses. She had to borrow a lot of money to buy them.



When I was in a fourth grade music class, my favorite song was "The Sante Fe Trail." When I sang it from the music book in class, I realized that everyone started looking at me. The teacher asked me if I would sing the song by myself. Then she asked me to sing for other classes. After obliging her, I became a celebrity in the school. Wow! What a fine feeling that was! Soon, people in the community were inviting me to sing and giving me money. The Knickerbocker Theater, a burlesque house, had a talent show every Friday night. After passing the audition, I was allowed to compete. The night I sang "My Wild Irish Rose" and won ten dollars made me think I was getting to be rich.

My cousin, Johnny Murphy, had a dance studio on North High Street where the Majestic Theater used to be. Mom thought that I should be in show business because of my ability to sing. To her, it figured that if I could learn to tap dance like Fred Astaire, I could audition for being in a movie, especially since I could sing so well. Johnny Murphy was a wonderful dancer and had a great singing voice. At the dance reviews, he and I thrilled a lot of people; however, my desire to continue dancing was thwarted by a elevator boy who worked in the Majestic building. He looked at me and said he wondered how a boy with such big feet could ever be a dancer. That was it!

Chapter Two

When it was possible, I would go to the Ohio Capitol grounds around 3:00 PM and look for people reading newspapers. When I would see someone leave his paper, I would pick it up and try to sell it to the next person I saw. Business was good! One evening a group of five boys about my age ran past me. One boy thought it was funny when he slapped the newspapers out of my hand as he ran by; he didn't think it was funny when I ran him down and punched his face. If I had known how tough he was, I would have thought twice about catching him. We fought hard until his friends said that we had to stop because they had to go to choir practice. This choirboy had insulted me and I meant to finish our fight. He told me that if I would wait outside the church where he and his buddies were going to sing, he'd be glad to whip me after choir practice. It seemed like time was passing too slowly as I waited; so I dared to open the door of the huge church and peer in. Since I heard heavenly singing coming from downstairs, I decided to see who was making it. When I looked through the window of the rehearsal room, a tall man saw my face and motioned for me to enter. Reluctantly, I opened the door and heard him say,

"Okay, boys, we'll take a short break while I audition this gentleman."

My choirboy rose from his seat with a sneering grin on his face and came over to hear what would happen; so did his friends. The tall man played about eight notes on a piano and asked me to repeat them on the syllable "la." It was easy! It was also fun to see the looks on five curious faces as I finished. They had an abrupt change of attitude towards me and eventually became good friends. The choir director went no further. He told me that I could make $5.00 per week if I would sing in his choir. Also, he said that the boy whom he considered the most musically prepared and who had the best behavior in rehearsal could carry the cross in the Sunday service. That would pay an extra $3.00 per week. That was a much better deal than hunting newspapers, so I became a member of the Episcopal Churches' boy choir on the corner of Third and Broad Streets. Richard Schmidt, the tall man, was an organist as well as a choirmaster and had the personality of a Gestapo agent. Since I could not read music fluently, he was annoyed when he had to teach me by rote. Sometimes, he said that he felt I was not worth the eight dollars per week that I was being paid because I was too slow in



learning music. To get his money's worth, he made me learn a difficult soprano solo, "No Candle Was There, and No Fire," to sing for the congregation. A member of the board of the Columbus Boy Choir was in attendance on the day I sang the solo.

One night, a knock came at our door. In our neighborhood, that could mean serious danger. Mom had a ball bat in a corner near the door. With it hidden behind her, she slowly opened the door. The unexpected visitors were Herbert Huffman, founder and director of the Columbus Boy Choir, and Harry C. Marshall, headmaster of the school. Mom was thrilled that Mr. Huffman had come to visit and hear me sing. She apologized for our telephone being "out of order." (It seemed that every time Mom had a slow week, financially, that dumb phone would go out of order!) That night, I sang for our visitors and was invited, on the spot, to enter the fifth grade at CBS. My chance to become acquainted with the great choral music of history began at that time.

On Sundays, Mom tried to be with the family as much as possible. We would go to church and then come home and have a wonderful lunch; much of the food came from the large garden my great-grandfather tended behind the house. Our most abundant crop was the tomato. Practically every day my grandmother would fry tomatoes for breakfast; at lunch, she would serve them raw; for supper they were stewed. After I became a man, it took me years to try and eat tomatoes again.

Mom had many customers who heard about my ability to play by ear. One of them directed her to a famous concert pianist, Eldon Howells. He and his partner, Agnes Wright, were wonderful duo pianists who often played with the Columbus Symphony. When Mom called Mr. Howells to make an appointment, he was not interested in taking another student, especially a beginner. Mom was both charming and persuasive and didn't understand the word "no." After she told him how I could play, he became curious and decided to speak with us in person.

On the day we were to meet Eldon Howells, Mom made me dress up in my tailor made suit; she wore an outfit that she created. It was about a five-mile walk to his house. When we knocked on the door, it opened so fast that we were startled. Mr. Howells was a man of average size and slight build; however his face made him look very strong. All of his movements seem to be very precise. After some conversation, he asked me to sit at his beautiful Model O Steinway baby grand piano and improvise for him. What a wonderful instrument it was! When I had played what was in my head, he asked to see my hands. To his surprise, he discovered that I could reach the interval of a twelfth with either hand. His summation of our interview was brief:

"Wallace will be my student," he said. "Come here next week, bring four dollars for the lesson, and the John Thompson, "Teaching Little Fingers to Play" piano book. If Wallace fails to do exactly what I say, he will no longer be my student."

With that, he ushered Mom and me out of the house. Both of us were stunned! The walk home seemed as though it took no time at all. The only problem that Mom faced was how we could afford four dollars every week. I wouldn't let her talk about it. From the time I was eight years old, I had always found a way to make money, so I promised that I would afford the cost of lessons. It made me feel good to make that promise, because of the pride I saw in her lovely hazel eyes.

The next night, Mom brought home the book of piano music. She played through the book for me. As soon as she finished, I could play all the music that I had heard. Since my lesson was



prepared, I went a step further and accompanied the written music with improvisation. My first lesson was a whole week away; I simply couldn't wait!

The next day, I found a job selling magazines from door-to-door. My customers could buy the Saturday Evening Post, Life, Liberty, or Ladies Home Companion from me. On the way to school, I sold magazines, and on the way home I sold more of them. Soon, I was selling more magazines than any other boy in the magazine distribution company.

Besides selling magazines, Dad allowed me to use an old shoeshine stand that had been stored away in the barbershop for several years. Dad taught me what to say when I invited customers to have their shoes shined, and he looked at me with a scowl when my manners were not appropriate. In between customers, Dad taught me how to shine all kinds of shoes. It was fun! Because I was extremely courteous, customers nearly always paid more than the dime I required to shine a pair of shoes. Every night I had money to give Mom.

My lesson money was in hand by the time I arrived at the home of Mr. Howells.

"Come in!" he said sternly. "Today, we shall learn how to strengthen weak fingers."

'But when can I play my pieces?' I thought.

After a while, the exercise he was giving me began to hurt my arms and he saw pain on my face.

"Did you think everything was going to be easy?" he said curtly. "Only strong-minded people succeed at learning to play the piano. Can you take the torture? Can you control yourself and make yourself do what is necessary to succeed?"

He told me to keep practicing the finger tapping exercise while he excused himself. Just as soon as he disappeared from the room, I played my prepared lesson, and I played it gloriously! When I turned around to see if he was on his way back to the room, I found him standing right behind me! The look on his face was unreadable. We stared at one another for what seemed to be an hour. A slight crack at the edge of his mouth indicated that he was trying not to smile. It was then that we both broke into uncontrolled laughter. It was at that moment when I knew that I loved my teacher. When I handed him the four dollars, he said that I should use the money to buy my next piano book. A repeat of everything that happened in my first lesson, happened in nearly every lesson that followed. By the time a year had passed, he scheduled a piano recital for me.

Just before my recital, Eldon Howells died of pneumonia. Before he passed away, arrangements had been made for me to study with his former teacher, Frank Murphy. The sudden demise of Mr. Howells left me so heartbroken that I couldn't eat or sleep. Mom was there to take away the hurt and to explain that life is like a musical scale.

"There are seven notes in a C major scale, but eight notes in an octave," she said. "When we get to next key after seven, it is number one, a new beginning."

"Why can't you call it eight, the end of an octave?" I asked.



"If you call the octave an ending place, then there can only be one octave on the piano," she said. "When Mr. Howells came to the note after number seven, his life began again; it didn't end. He went to heaven to live forever."

Mom's simple explanation stayed with me the rest of my life. Life is like an unfinished scale.

When I was 14, I began training for a boxing tournament. Dad's dream of having his own gymnasium finally came true. Professional fighters began to train there. The Sportsman Gym was located on the top floor of the old Southern Hotel. From Dad's barbershop at 269 South High Street, you could see his gym.

"Ow!" I screamed, "That guy hit me with his glove while my eye was open!"

Now there were two of him; the pain I felt was driving me crazy. My dad was standing behind my corner of the ring; he was yelling at me.

"Never let anybody know when you're hurt!"

As my opponent charged me, I was taking a lot of hard punches.

Dad yelled, "Taking it is more important than giving it out! Stay in there and never quit!"

His words caused me to endure the punishment and recover.

Those were some of the earliest lessons that I remember as a teenage boy. Luckily, that fight was only a preparation session for a boxing tournament to be sponsored by the Sportsman Gym. Because I didn't give up, my dad said that he might let me enter the featherweight division, that was of course, if Mom approved.

Chapter Three

Mom was continually struggling to make ends meet. When I asked her about the boxing tournament, her facial expression showed that she was not at all pleased; however, she was so engrossed in sewing that she answered with a scowl which I interpreted as a "yes."

Mom was an artist at making clothes and worked most of her life in the alteration department of the Lazarus Department Store on High Street, two blocks from Dad's barbershop. She was supporting her grandfather, her mother, my brother and me on about ten dollars per week. It was imperative that she work at home for private clients every night after supper. Her best paying customers were fighters and wrestlers who wanted distinctive robes to wear in the pre-fight introductions. One of her best customers was the world champion wrestler, Frankie Talaber. He would come over to our house for private fittings. It was a holiday when he was there. His personality was always sunny. We became great friends.

One night Frankie gave me two free passes to watch him enter the arena wearing the robe that Mom had made for him. The referee was Jack Dempsey, the heavyweight boxing champion of the world when Babe Ruth was playing baseball. Mom couldn't go watch



Frankie defend his title, but she allowed him to take me to the wrestling match so that I could meet Jack Dempsey. On the way out of the door, Frankie told me to take a piece of piano music with me so that I could ask Jack Dempsey to sign it. Music in hand, I went with Frankie to the Haft's Acre Fight Arena.

Frankie Talaber tied his opponent in knots and successfully defended his title. After the match, he introduced me to Jack Dempsey. Meeting him was a thrilling experience. He did not seem as big as I expected him to be, but when we shook hands, it was like touching an oak tree. His personality was warm and friendly, not mean and savage. The three of us went to the Clock Restaurant on North High Street, the place where sportsmen gathered. Frankie told Jack about my ability to play the piano. Since there was an old upright piano in the place, Jack and Frankie asked me if I would play a song for them. As I played, Jack Dempsey leaned over and said, "Someday, Walli, you're going to be a champion."

Maybe that was the greatest compliment I have ever had. There he was, "The Manassa Mauler," listening to my music with tears in his eyes! When we went back to our table, Jack said,

"Walli, if I could do what you do, I'd give up everything I've ever done."

That comment put tears into my eyes. He wrote a note on my piano music and we parted.

Mom was always afraid that I might injure my hands while I was boxing. That prospect never entered my mind. After school every day, I would run from school to Dad's gym and work out. Dad didn't treat me like his son. He treated me like a professional fighter. Those shadow boxing sessions that he required started with a duration of one minute. Moving continuously and swinging fast and hard for sixty seconds at an imaginary opponent was exhausting, especially since I had a one pound iron weight in each hand! When I was good enough to go for one minute, Dad raised the requirement to thirty seconds more! He kept that procedure going until I could go five minutes, non-stop!

One day, I had had enough. "Dad, if the three rounds of a tournament boxing match last only two minutes each, why do you make me shadow box for five minutes?" I asked.

He looked very serious as he said, "If a round is two minutes long, a good fighter will prepare for it by shadow boxing four minutes. A champion trains for five minutes. That extra minute can make the difference between winning and losing."

The day I won my first boxing tournament was one of the happiest days of my whole life up to that point. My dad was proud of me. The runner-up for the featherweight title was the favorite, but he wasn't prepared for what I could do. Mom was happy about my victory too, but she never said much. She was afraid that I might continue fighting and wreck my hands. There was a down side to being a good fighter because my name was De Pue. When some kid would want to try me, all he had to do was hold his nose and say my last name while stressing the final syllable. Because I was small and wore thick glasses, my skills were summoned so many times at school that I was always in trouble. Sometimes the faculty blamed me for fights, whether I was in them or not!



When I graduated from the Columbus Boy Choir School, I went to Roosevelt Junior High School. Of course, I joined the choir and was shocked that everyone seemed to be so musically ignorant. Formal courses in math, biology and Latin were beyond my experience, so I began to fail those subjects. The classes were so boring that something had to be done!

Mr. Davis was in the twilight of his teaching career. He was short, overweight and bald-headed. His demeanor was totally "cool." Nothing could make him become emotional. He never raised his voice and was always quietly pleasant. He would enter the classroom exactly on the minute the class was to begin; he would walk slowly, looking straight ahead, to his desk and place his briefcase upon it; then he would sit down on a chair with a woven cane seat. One day, when he repeated his entrance ritual, he sat down on the woven cane seat and his eyes popped wide open! He kept his composure as he carefully arose and ejected a sizable tack from the weaving in his chair. He made sure that the whole class saw it and then placed it on his desk, sat down carefully and began our lesson. It was on that day that I became convinced that my dad was right when he said, "Never let the other guy know when you're hurt!" Mr. Davis was championship material. He had "heart." What was meant to be hilarious joke didn't even get a snicker.

Miss Wolfe was in her final year of teaching. She was a sweet little old lady, short in stature and +slight of build, who was brilliant in Latin. She enjoyed declining all the Latin verbs within so short a time that she sounded like an auctioneer as she sped through the words from memory. If she were alive today, she might be hailed as the originator of "rap." Her verb declension was the only interesting thing that happened in Latin class. Soon the students learned that she would decline verbs upon request. A request was made in practically every class so that more time would elapse during the period. The poor lady didn't seem to remember declining her Latin verbs from class to class!

Mrs. Lemle taught biology with such great authority that asking questions of her seemed inappropriate. She was short, very stocky and possessed a contralto voice that rang loudly in the science room. The textbook we used was full of things that I didn't care about, such as the internal organs of a fish or the various parts of a flower. The subject of science drove me crazy with boredom. The teacher reminded me of a Nazi executive saying, "You vill read your textbook und you vill like it!"

Things were okay until that terrible day when the teacher passed out pencil styluses and live frogs. Her directions were to dislocate the spine from the heads of the poor frogs just to see what happened. My frog looked up at me sadly, as if he knew he was going to die. Without saying anything, I walked over to the first floor window and liberated my frog. With that, I announced that any guy I saw kill a frog would pay for the deed after school. In spite of Mrs. Lemle's verbal protests and foot stomping, there were many frogs who tasted freedom that day.

When I had to show my grade card to Mom, I felt terrible. Mr. Davis gave me an "F" in math; Miss Wolfe presented me with an "F" in Latin and Mrs. Lemle passed me with a "D"! (She was probably afraid that I might return to her class if she had flunked me.) The faculty didn't quite know what to do with me. They certainly did not want me to return to Roosevelt Jr. High and make up the classes that I had failed; so they made some arrangements with South High School to allow me to attend the tenth grade and make up my deficiencies.



South High School was where Gene and Jim Tuff, Columbus Golden Glove Champions, attended. They were brothers who held titles in two different weight divisions. They were also gentlemen who were well respected by everyone. It occurred to me that if they could be so popular with the faculty and students, even though they were fighters, why couldn't I? My intention was to put away my pugilistic ways until, during the second week of school, a kid named Bobby Rosen wantonly kicked over all of my books. It happened in a huge study hall while the teacher had stepped out for a minute. When I went over to talk to Rosen, he smashed me in the face and put one of my eyeglass lens into the flesh right under my right eye! The dance was on! We were hard at it when someone warned that the teacher was on her way. Everything was quiet when she arrived; still she sensed something. The blood all over my face gave me away.

Rosen would not engage me in a fair fight…but his friends would, first one, then another. The word about my being "the fast gun" was out, just like it had been in other schools where I attended. Somehow, the staff had registered me for geometry instead of algebra. After several weeks, the error was discovered and I was taken out of geometry, where I was making an A, and placed in algebra where nothing made sense! The teacher would say things like, "A-B-C equals D."

'Well, whoopee, but who gives a _ _ _ _?' I would think.

Things got so bad that I hated to get up in the morning. At grade time, one teacher, Mr. Moler, passed out the grade cards in a large homeroom. He commented on each card as he passed it out. When he saw mine, he belittled me in front of everyone because I had failed every course, even music! After that, I hated the school and practically everyone in it.

It wasn't long before I was being interview by the principal of the high school. He asked me if I would like to leave South High School and find a job. He told me that it could and should be arranged.

'O happy day!' I thought. 'Maybe I'll play piano with a band. Maybe I'll become a professional fighter. Maybe I'll start a business.' Ideas galore were going through my delighted mind.

Mom saw how terribly unhappy I was in school. She also saw that I was beginning to keep bad company. She was really worried about my future. One of her private customers told her about a high school that was affiliated with Ohio State University that was having wonderful success in teaching. According to the customer, the school only accepted the children of university professors, highly gifted students and problem children. She didn't mention that there was a long waiting list full of people who wanted admission.

Chapter Four

When Mom told me that I was not dropping out of high school and that a marvelous opportunity for me at a new high school was possible, my heart sank. The day came when we were to meet a Mr. John Ramseyer, principal of the University High School. Although he was extremely nice and friendly, he kept telling Mom that there was no way I could be admitted. Mom asked me to wait for her in the hallway. It felt so good to know that I was still going to be free of school that my heart sang. From the hallway, I thought I saw part of a grand piano in a room at the end of the hall. Yes, there was a beautiful nine-foot concert grand in what appeared to be a music room. Since I felt



so good, I sat down and expressed myself by playing a major work by Chopin. Oh, what fun! What a great instrument! What a magnificent sound! At the end of my performance, I became aware that I was not alone. When I turned around, I saw Mr. Ramseyer whisper something to Mom. It was easy to tell by the joy on her face that I would be going back to school. In my mind, all schools were like prisons. Punishments, unfairness, lock-stepping, time wasting and a host of other things were the rule. Schools were all the same, rotten.

When I went to meet the faculty at University School, there was a man named Mr. Sylvan Mikelson who was going to make a big change in my life. He knew that I didn't trust him, but he was very kind and straightforward in answering my concerns. When he asked me what I wanted to study at University School, I said I didn't want to study anything. He said, "Okay"! When I asked if I would be allowed to practice on the grand piano after school, he said "Okay"! He was not only pleasant, but he was very agreeable.

My first days at University School were spent pretty much alone. Either I sat in classes maintaining my silence, or I practiced on the grand piano whenever it was available. One day, a teacher, Miss Jeanne Orr, asked me if I'd like to watch some people painting pictures in oil on canvas. That idea was so interesting that I accepted the invitation. As I watched, it occurred to me that I could paint pictures too, that is, if I would join the class. Soon, I was painting pictures in oil!

One morning I heard the sound of a choir coming from the "piano room." For a while, I watched. Just as I was thinking that the tenor section needed strength, Miss Mary Tolbert invited me to sing! Meeting her was one of the most important events of my life. She was good at everything she did. What a teacher! She introduced me to basic elements of writing music. Because of what she had to say about my need for knowing poetry, I studied English. Of course, that led to studying history with Mrs. Jones, another sterling teacher. My opportunity to write scripts for "Buckshot" radio shows opened a whole new experience because of Jane Stewart's teaching.

At last, I was in a school where no one wanted to hold me back or ridicule me for making mistakes. There was no busier student than I. There was so much I needed to learn and I never felt alone. There was always some teacher who would help me when I needed advice. The highlight of my activities was winning the national auditions to appear on the Horace Heidt Show. Horace Heidt and His Musical Knights was one of the top bands in commercial music. People who had appeared with him went to the top in show business. Playing the piano on national radio was one of my major goals. The concert took place in Memorial Hall. Backstage, I met Al Hirt, the great trumpeter; Johnny Mundee, a superb Irish tenor, and others who were national celebrities in those days.

It came time for college. Capital University accepted me because of my abilities as a pianist. Frank Murphy had been my mentor and teacher while I was going through high school. Trouble started at Capital when I refused to study piano with a former student of Frank Murphy. It didn't make sense to study with a student when I could study with the master himself? The only way around the problem was to major in music composition.

The faculty composer was William S. Bailey. Unfortunately, he couldn't stand the shape of my head! He had studied with Nadia Boulanger, teacher of Gershwin, Copland, Stavinsky, etc. Mr. Bailey had the idea that nothing after the music of Brahms amounted to much. Although I thought Mr. Bailey was a terrific teacher, he never had any respect for what I could do. To ask him a question in



class would invite intimidation; to ask him a question in private could cause him to shake his head in a negative manner and be silent. Nevertheless, he was my major teacher, but only because he had no other choice, according to the rules of the university.

There were some marvelous musical events at Capital. On one occasion, Dr. Weston Noble brought his Luther College band to give a concert. Although I did not care much for band music, Weston Noble's band was fantastic! They played a piece entitled La Fiesta Mexicana that was one of the most wonderful compositions I had ever heard. When the piece was finished, I turned to my friend and said, "Someday, I want to study with whoever wrote that composition."

Ellis Emanuel Snyder was the founder and conductor of the Chapel Choir, a wonderful singing organization that toured all over the world. When I passed the audition and earned a place in the tenor section, my life took another sharp turn for the better. Dr. Snyder wanted me to write something for his choir! My first composition for the Chapel Choir was like hitting a home run. Although I wanted to show the piece to Mr. Bailey, I knew that he wouldn't approve. Dr. Snyder gave me many more opportunities to write for his great choir. Recordings were made of my works that would enable me to further my education by going to graduate school for a master's degree.

While at Capital University, I sold shoes at Gilbert's, the world's largest family shoe store. There were 500,000 pairs of shoes in plain sight when a customer entered the store. There were many thousands of other shoes in stock. Although I won nearly every sales contest, I disliked selling shoes to women. While I was fitting one, she said,

"That just doesn't do anything for my foot."

Respectfully, I replied, "It keeps your foot off the floor."

People who were in ear-shot of the comments began to laugh.

The lady complained to my boss that I had been acting "fresh."

At Capital, I became engaged to the girl of my dreams, a 19-year-old soprano. We were going to be married in one year, as soon as she graduated. Unfortunately, I graduated while she still had a year to go.

The only place I could afford to enroll in graduate school was at Ohio State University.

My choral works and recordings gained me admittance. Since I knew that I might lose my fiancé if I moved to a school far away, I was delighted to be at OSU. The down side was that I had to complete a whole master's degree within a single year or I would not be able to get a teaching position, so that I could support my new wife after her graduation.

One evening when my fiancé and I were having coffee at the Feed Bag Restaurant, across from Capital University, a man in the next booth heard me complaining about selling shoes. He introduced himself as Bob Holmes, a student at Capital, and invited me to join him and several others for a free steak dinner at the Desert Sands Restaurant, one of the finest places in Columbus, where he could talk to me about a real job.



The next evening, I was a little late for our appointment. As I was going to the meeting place, a crowd of highly enthusiastic young men, including Bob Holmes, passed by me on its way to the Desert Sands. Bob asked me to tag along. The event was a huge sales meeting! The young men were new recruits for selling Rena Ware, stainless steel pots and pans. Never had I done anything like that; however, I was soon trained and out knocking doors in an attempt to find customers.

Rena Ware was the largest company selling stainless steel cooking utensils in the world. What could have been more suitable than to start my career with the company by becoming the only salesman in company history who failed to sell anything in fifty documented home demonstrations? Attending sales meetings was torture. Being the object of ridicule for never making a sale was hard to take. Harder to take than that was my own mother's loving statement,

"Son, I'm your mother; so I know you better than anybody. You are not the kind of man who can become a door-to-door salesman. You should quit this foolishness and get a job where no commissions are involved."

Quit! That word stuck in my craw. Quit? NEVER! Within a year, I owned a new Cadillac car, a beautiful wardrobe, and a large diamond ring; all were contest prizes. On the corner of Drexel and Main streets, I had an office where I trained scores of salesmen to sell Rena Ware. Soon, I became the Field Manger of southern Ohio. In 1956 and again in 1960, I was the national champion salesman of Rena Ware! Quit, indeed!

Although I was making very good money, I was struggling to find the time to see my fiancé and to complete my graduate school assignments. Four hours sleep per night tended to diminish my energy. It took 45 minutes to get to OSU via bus. During that time, I was sound asleep. When the buss reached 15th and High streets, I would automatically awaken, pull the cord and jump off the bus. Once, when I was in the university library, I dozed off, caught myself, leaped from my seat, reached for the cord, ran half way to the door, and screamed, "Stop the bus!"

Chapter Five

Dr. Louis B. Diercks conducted the famous Symphonic Choir of OSU. He was a task Master, but an excellent teacher. He didn't care about my sales work or romantic situation. It was in his mind to make me become a choral director. Wise people did not neglect his assignments or argue with his ambitions.

The man who taught composition, Dr. Norman Phelps, said the same thing about every piece I wrote: "Um hm." That was all he ever had to say! One day a group of five performers came into the composition class to play a contemporary piece. All of the performers sat down, even the singer! When I asked why she didn't stand, the answer was that she was a vocal instrumentalist, not a singer! The composition performed was total cacophony. The 'cellist was still playing for two measures after the others had stopped. Now one knew he had made a mistake! Composition by composition, I was failing the course. My music had form, melodic content, beautiful romantic harmony, but none of those qualities were appreciated. They were considered old-fashioned and apart from the contemporary mainstream of music.

Good fortune allowed me to run into an old friend from Capital who was also a composition major. Bob Bell and I had a beer together and talked about old times. We shared some great stories.



My potential failure as a composition major came into our discussion. Bob said he could "fix it," referring to my problem of mainstream writing, if I would meet him in a few hours at his apartment.

Bob was a big man. He was also a red-headed firebrand of great physical strength. Many people considered him peculiar because of the clownish clothes he wore and the fact that his hair was long. Still, Bob was highly intelligent and afraid of nothing. He was a terrific pianist who specialized in contemporary music. It was about 7:00 PM when I knocked on his apartment door. There was no answer! The door was ajar, so I thought something was strange. Quietly, I stepped inside the apartment and looked around for a possible burglar. In another room, I saw Bob sitting in a corner facing the walls. There were several pages of manuscript paper glued to the spaces around him. Next to Bob was a small end table. Around his head was a bandana. In his hand was a music writing pen with a short nib. I started to say something and was stopped mid-word with a loud shush. Suddenly, Bob stabbed the end table with his pen! The nib was bent and split when he looked at it curiously. Slowly, Bob dipped the nib into a small cup of India ink. For several seconds, he just sat there, motionlessly. With lightening speed, he yelled, "Hah!!!" and shook his music pen at the manuscript pages hanging on the walls! It seemed that thousands of ink drops were all over the pages after the vigorous shaking of his pen.

"Hi Walli!" he said with a huge smile. "I just finished my next composition. It takes a lot of concentration and inspiration to compose, you know. The professor will love this one. There will be an "A" in it, for sure. This piece will be for - let's see - orchestra, I think."

With that, my peculiar friend seemed less peculiar. He took down some of the manuscript pages and began to put stems on the countless dots. He produced a long ruler and began to organize what was on the page.

My next composition earned an "A"! That grade started to appear on all of my "compositions." It only shows what a single lesson with a master can do for you.

During final exam week, my fiancé gave back her engagement ring. She had found someone else while I had been so busy. That happening hurt me worse than anything I had ever experienced. Still, it was time to do something. At one time people thought it was not likely that I'd get through high school. Most of my friends never believed I could get a bachelor's degree, let alone two of them, a BA in composition and a BME in music education. Folks were of the opinion that a master's degree completed in only one year was out of the question. It was time to do something impossible and pursue a doctorate.

The only two pieces that I had to present to graduate school committees where doctoral degrees in composition could be pursued, were choral works. Schools wanted to see music scores containing advanced compositions. Each of my pieces were between two and four minutes long; however, the recordings were excellent. One-by-one I was rejected by every school in the nation that could afford a doctorate in music composition. The letter that I had asked my undergraduate composition professor to write in my behalf may have contained statements that were not in my best interest. However, there was one exception, Michigan State University. During the entrance committee deliberations, my credentials were about to be rejected when a composer, Dr. H. Owen Reed, stood up and said that he saw unusual potential in my writing. The committee humored Dr.



Reed and admitted me on probation. Oddly enough, H. Owen Reed was the composer of La Fiesta Mexicana.

Four six years, I taught keyboard harmony and music theory classes as a graduate assistant, studied like a man on fire, attended every class and concert at the music school, and won every composition contest that I entered. On weekends, I sold Rena Ware to pay my bills. My lessons with H. Owen Reed happened whenever I would knock on his office door. He would drop what he was doing and work with me. Because I thought "mainstream contemporary music" was what those in graduate school expected, I composed my first piece for Dr. Reed following the instructions of Bob Bell. As I tried to play the score, Dr. Reed started to snicker. When I looked at him, half smiling, he said, with his southern drawl,

"Damned if that don't sound like somebody threw ink on manuscript paper!" Both of us laughed hard for ten minutes and reached an understanding about what kind of music was expected. Learning from H. Owen Reed was like having a thrill per minute. In fact, all of the faculty members were excellent. During my last two weeks at M.S.U., Dr. Paul Harder asked me to teach his theory class because he had to be out of town. When I entered the classroom, I saw Linda Kallman, a beautiful Swedish girl from Wisconsin, sitting there in all her glory. Just before I had to leave East Lansing, Linda and I became engaged. We planed to be married a year from the time we had to part and go our separate ways. When I left M.S.U., I felt prepared to accept a university position. Because of my desire to marry, I needed a job.

After graduation, one job rejection after another came my way. Finally, at the last minute, I was hired by the Toledo Museum of Art to be the director of a children's choir and a teacher of music history to elementary school classes that visited the art museum. For the next two years, I bathed in culture, associated with creative people and presided over the concerts held in the museum's Peristyle concert hall. Great performers, chamber groups and orchestras from all over the world presented concerts and I had the best seat in the house.

Linda Kallman and I were married during my second year at the art museum. When I took her to the apartment where we began our life together, there was absolutely nothing in it, not a chair, not a table, nothing! We bought all of our furniture from a French chain store called Sale' Garaage. We learned the first names of all the auctioneers in Lucas and Wood counties and knew the locations of Goodwill and Salvation Army stores in Toledo.

Although I loved working at the Toledo Art Museum, the pay was too low for a job that required the presence of a married man seven days a week. My credentials were sent to several universities. James Paul Kennedy, a man to whom I had spoken many times over the phone at the art museum was the dean of music at Bowling Green State University. To my surprise, he invited me to visit him for an interview. The school needed a teacher of theory and a choral musician; I was both, so I went to BGSU for an audition.

My interview was a nightmare! There were four faculty members and the dean present. One professor was hostile towards me! He asked how I would teach sight singing. When I told him, he belittled my education. That feeling of warmth started in my stomach and began to boil. While my bug-eyed adversary ranted and raved, I could envision him lying on the floor. After the interrogation,



the dean dismissed me so that he could interview someone else. Out in the hallway, one of my interviewers spoke to me with a twinkle in his eye.

"Dr. De Pue, you gave as good as you got. Congratulations!" At that point, I thought the whole place was crazy. When one tries to pronounce the letters BGSU, "bugs you" comes forth. When I told Linda how I felt, I said I would never consider teaching there, even if the unlikely offer of a position were extended to me. Dr. James Paul Kennedy made me change my mind. In 1966, I became an instructor at BGSU.

Linda and I bought a tiny house in 1969, the same year our first son was born. What an occasion that was! When I took my wife to the hospital maternity ward, I was required to wear a flimsy robe, a white hairnet type hat and a face mask. As I sat waiting for my son to make an appearance on Earth, my mind flashed back to the time when deaths occurred frequently during childbirth. The recollections made me very uneasy. Finally, a poker-faced doctor came to see me. Eagerly, I asked,

"Well, how is she doc?"

"Oh, she's doing well," he said, soberly.

"How's the baby?"

"I can't tell you."

"What in the hell do you mean, you can't tell me? Did she have a nine-pound-ear or something?"

The doctor turned around and motioned for me to follow him. When we entered the room, Linda was radiant. She was holding a blanket tied with ribbon and a bow. As I approached, she handed me the package and said, "Happy Father's Day."

What a present! My first son, Wallace Earl De Pue, Jr., was in my arms. And it was Father's Day!

Our second son was born in 1972. By then, I knew how to stay up all day and all night with a sick child, hide everything in my house that could hurt a toddler and remove stains from practically anything. Linda and I were in the public park when she said with a grimace that her water broke. My immediate reaction was that Linda was in trouble. Without hesitation, I scooped her up in my arms and ran to our car. When I carried her into the emergency room, a kindly nurse assured me that Linda would be alright.

In 1972, Alexander Paul was born. He began his life by being different. The doctor called him a breach baby. There were red marks on his little head because of tools used to deliver him. He looked like a tiny, painted warrior.

Next came Jason Micah. His birth took place in 1976, the year of the American centennial. His birth was uneventful. Never could there have been a more loving child than Jason. As a toddler, he was beautiful beyond words. His loving nature never changed.



Zachary Jon entered the family in 1979! He came into the world with the umbilical cord around his neck. Everyone in the delivery room had a real scare. As soon as I saw him, I knew that he would be exceptional. His eyes were bright and he loved to laugh. Zachary was highly intelligent. He was a gorgeous little baby. In pre-school, some naive teacher determined that Wally was retarded. He couldn't skip, catch a ball, hop on one foot, etc., all skills that attested to her belief. I knew better.

Yes, there was something wrong with Wally, but what?

When I was a direct salesman, I learned that when I wanted to find out something, I should talk about whatever it was to everyone I met. Bingo! As I was being fitted for eyeglasses, I told my doctor about Wally. My doctor, Chester Morris, was a highly intelligent, crusty old hillbilly from southern Ohio. His eyes twinkled so much I think one could have seen them in the dark. He said, gruffly,

Bring that boy to me! I've got an idea about what's bugging him."

Within a few days, the invitation was accepted. It took only five minutes before the eye doctor knew what the trouble was!

"This kid needs to play with a toy," he said with a grin as he handed me a strange looking object. "He's got an eye to hand coordination problem."

The "toy" was a block of wood containing tall, headless nails surrounded by a thick rubber band."

"You make a design by weaving this rubber band around three nails." The doctor demonstrated as he was speaking. "Let Wally watch you. When he can copy what you do as you weave around three nails, then you weave around four nails, and so forth. Pretty soon Wally will improve. Play with him every day until he does! By the way, you're a musician; can you play a fiddle?"

"That is something I always wanted to do," I told him.

"Well, now's your chance. Get two of them. Get a big one for you and a little one for Wally. The kid needs to develop all kinds of coordination. A fiddle will make each of his hands do something entirely different."

The good doctor's orders were followed explicitly. An ad in the paper led me to a quarter-size violin for Wally, and a garage sale yielded a full-size violin for me. Dr. Paul Makara, a fine violinist and colleague of mine at BGSU, accepted Wally as a student. It seemed that in no time at all, Wally started to succeed in school; but to my amazement, he began to excel at playing the violin! It had always been my desire to learn the instrument; however, there was no opportunity for me to do so while I was growing up. Wally and I practiced each lesson given to us by Dr. Makara until, without warning, Wally looked up at me with his deep blue eyes and said, "Dad, would you please not practice with me. You don't play in tune."

Although I was crushed by his remark, I knew I would have another chance in a couple of years when Alex began taking lessons. As each of the boys turned five years of age, they were introduced to the violin. When the time came for me to practice with Alex, he also excused me shortly after we



started preparing lessons. That horrid experience happened two more times with Jason and Zach, respectively. Now, I am the only male in the family who can not play the violin.

After Wally started playing the violin, the brothers born after him seemed to have his repertoire in their heads! Each boy was extremely musical and creative. When I knew that the boys should begin to play in public, there was no place to perform. We appeared in nursing homes and at Christmas parties and that was all. One summer day, while passing the fairgrounds, I saw somebody playing a violin in front of thousands of people. Curiosity made me buy a ticket. There was a fiddle contest being held. It was said that the next day there would be a talent show, where anyone who registered could perform.

The next day, Linda and I registered Wally in the talent contest. It was a very nice day, but it was windy. When Wally was introduced by the master of ceremonies, he and I climbed the stairs to play on a huge flatbed trailer that served as a stage. There was a small studio piano waiting for me and a curious audience waiting for my nine-year-old son. Wally did wonderfully; I struggled.

After about sixteen measures of music went by, the music itself went bye-bye in a gust of wind! The rest of my part in our duet was a "creative effort." Wally and I looked at one another just as our eyes rolled back in our heads. What did the judges think?

The talent contest judges awarded Wally a tie for first place with a young soprano.

Wally's prize was a check for $50, a lot of money in those times.

The trio of De Pues were rejoicing all the way home; but when I started to unload the car, I realized that the violin was missing. Wally had left it under the bleachers. That violin was worth far more than Wally's prize money. We returned to the fair to search for the instrument. Someone had taken it. At least, I didn't have to buy new strings for it anymore. There has to be something good about everything that happens…doesn't there? About two weeks later, an old man called and said that he was cleaning up the fairgrounds and found a fiddle. He saw Wally's picture in the newspaper and thought the fiddle might be his. Worry was living at my house until that call came.

There was no string program in our city schools while the older two brothers were attending; however, Miami University sent a young woman to see if she could help BGSU start a string program in BG schools. The young lady was doing a great job going from class to class in the elementary schools and demonstrating her prowess with the violin. Several parents were cooperating with her by encouraging their children to play stringed instruments. One day, the lady gave her demonstration at Ridge School, near where we lived.

"This is a violin," she said with a smile as she spoke to the children in grade four. "This instrument has strings on it. Do you know what they are made of? Each string is made out of cat gut." Moans came forth from the children. "No, no!" she exclaimed, "The strings are really made out of something that is only called cat gut."

Everyone seemed gratified to know that their pet cats were safe from people who were musicians.



As she held up a violin bow, she said, "This is a bow. It is made out of horsy hairs. Will somebody come up here and help me?"

Raised hands were everywhere, so at random she chose a little blond boy to assist her.

"Now, tuck the violin way under your chin. That's right. Now after I fix the bow in your hand so that you're holding it right, place the bow on a string and play."

As soon as the word "play" was spoken, Jason Micah De Pue began to perform a violin concerto by Vivaldi!

As the music poured forth, the lady's eyes met those of the teacher who smiled and shrugged her shoulders.

Later, when she talked to the teacher, the lady said, "Nobody is going to believe me when I go back to the university."

The teacher replied, "Wait until you see who is waiting for your lecture in the first grade.

Zachary, Jason's little brother, will also want to help you."

Chapter Six

Linda was an excellent pianist. She had always wanted to become a concert artist. Still, she didn't quite know whether she wanted to play concerts with her sons and me. Reluctantly, she consented to accompany the boys during our first real exposure to the BG community. We were asked to perform at the Jr. High School Concert Hall, as part of a large fund raising event. The boys were spectacular, and Linda enjoyed her personal kudos so much that she was hooked on performing with us. Engagements began to pour in from all over NW Ohio, Michigan and Indiana. My education in making concert arrangements and commanding proper fees for our music services was tacked on to my experience in wheeling and dealing for instruments of all sizes, handling publicity, running nightly rehearsals, etc. My conscious hours became greatly extended.

The family was reaching for the stars. Linda loved performing with us until the unexpected happened. She was stricken with breast cancer and had to undergo a radical mastectomy. Dr. Oberhulse told me that the cancer was in Linda's lymph nodes and that she would need immediate treatment. He was a wise, excellent surgeon and member of our church. He gave Linda the operation. As soon as I was allowed to see her after the operation, I walked into her hospital room and saw her blue eyes full of tears. She said, "Walli, I guess I'll have to get ready to be with Jesus."

Those words riled me and I spoke without thinking, "Jesus can wait! You're going to have to get ready to be with me!"

Who can be prepared for such a happening? What could I do? Then I remembered hearing that my old friend, John Minton, whom I had known both in the Columbus Boy Choir and at University School, had become a world class cancer specialist. He practiced at Ohio State University Hospital. As



soon as I contacted him, he told me to bring Linda to Columbus. After examining her, he didn't mince words,

"Walli, she is dealing with two different types of cancer in her right breast, and they're bad actors. One of the two is known, the other isn't. If I can find any research on it, I'll let you know."

Thanks to John's recommendation about the most competent doctors in NW Ohio, we found one who really cared about saving Linda, against all odds. He was compassionate but just as straightforward as John had been when he told us that Linda was in stage four…of five. He said, "Damn the statistics! Just don't take "No" for an answer. People in worse shape than your wife have beaten this monster."

When I heard his dramatic words, I knew Linda was in good hands. That doctor was a fighter.

The boys and I rallied around Linda and convinced her that, together, we could beat anything. "As long as we can move, we can win," was the family dictum. Still, going through chemotherapy took a toll on Linda's spirits. We treated the weekly trip to Toledo as an opportunity to party as soon as the chemo treatment was finished. Linda would dress up and I would wear a suit. After her treatment, we would go to a movie or out for ice cream. Whatever seemed like fun was on our menu.

We were acting like the cancer experience was simply an unexpected inconvenience. Our progress was going well. It was no comfort to learn that our friend, Dr. John Minton, was killed in an automobile accident. The news was devastating!

Jason was studying with a Russian immigrant from Odessa, Russia. When he joined the BGSU faculty, no one was aware of what a magnificent teacher he was. Boris had taught some internationally renowned violinists including Mark Peshnakov, a rising star in the world of "classical" music. When I asked Boris to teach Jason, at first he declined. But who could resist Jason, the most loving child there was. Boris was strict and demanding with Jason. When Jason did not assume the proper stance for performing, Boris opened his desk and produced a hammer and nails. With his deep voice and Russian accent, he said, "Jason, if Boris tells you to stand the right way and you do not, he will nail your feet to the floor to help you."

Just as Boris looked downward, suddenly both of Jason's feet were in the correct position!

Finally, Boris shocked me with the news that he expected Jason to present a recital at BGSU. Jason was only nine years of age! When Boris prescribed the program that Jason would play, I didn't think it was possible for such a little boy. Six weeks before the recital was to take place, Boris Brant died of a heart attack.

When Jason learned of his teacher's death, I knew just how the boy felt. Tears squirted out of Jason's eyes even though he tried to take the news like a man. Suddenly, he looked at me as if he were full of anger and said, "Dad, I'm going to play my recital anyway. I'll dedicate it to Mr. Brant, and I'll make it great."



Who could dream that in less than a month after Boris passed away, my wife would be killed in an automobile accident? It was on February 6 1986, when Linda and three of the boys were traveling to Ann Arbor, Michigan, for their lesson with Camilla Wicks, an international violinist celebrity; somehow the Mercury station wagon that I had recently purchased went out of control and struck a tree. Zach was only six years old, so he had stayed at home with me.

A phone call came telling me that Wally, Jr., was in one hospital, Alex and Jason were in another, and Linda was in still another. The news was like a punch in the solar plexus! Another call told me that Linda died of internal bleeding and I went berzerk! I started to pick up the sofa. Thank God, I realized that Zach was standing there watching me and that he was hurt just as much as I was. He was already frightened, so watching me attack the furniture was not going to do him any good.

An event happened that brings tears to my eyes even as I am writing this. Zach used to hear me teaching his brothers composition. All of them had exceptional talent for writing music. At first, they would play what they wanted written down. As I accommodated them, I told them how I could take dictation. Before too long, each one of them would bring me the music written down in their own hands! All that I had to do was to make suggestions and explain why I thought they were necessary. To my utter delight, little Zach stepped up to the plate and asked me to listen to his "composition."

"Dad, I wrote this for Mom," he said.

My heart missed a beat! It missed still another when the boy began to play. His composition, "Mama's Waltz," was absolutely moving, so much so that I entered it in a contest sponsored by the Toledo Orchestra. Zach won the first prize! His first appearance on television was when he played his own composition for an audience watching TV.

All of the sudden, I was mother and father to four wonderful boys who were shaken to their cores. Our friends were wonderful to us, but as time went on, we were alone. The music was our common ally. We rehearsed, wrote music, shared chores, and went our separate ways to school and to work. Two weeks after Linda died, a phone call came offering us a chance to play on national television, a dream we had always hoped would come true. Personally, I didn't give a damn; however, I put the proposition to the boys.

Jason made himself their spokesman as he said,

"Mom would have wanted us to play on national TV, Dad. Let's do it!"

The boys played wonderfully well, as if nothing were tearing at their insides. They were champions.

When it came time for Jason's recital at BGSU, he came on stage and addressed the audience.

"This recital is dedicated to my teacher, Mr. Brant, and to my mother. Both are buried side-by-side in Oak Grove Cemetery, next to this music building. I hope they're listening."

Jason played like a violin master. It was obvious that he would one day be world class.



Nearly a year passed when I realized that the boys were becoming barbarians. We were living like Spartans. There was no evident "class" in our family. Although the boys chattered and fought and laughed and cried, they could not speak "Grown Up," a language known only by people older than twenty-five. In the company of four boys, I felt all alone.

Andreas Poulimenos and his wife, Lee, were two of my best friends. Andy was one of my BGSU colleagues. He was Greek. Andy and Lee attended the Holy Trinity Greek Orthodox Church in Toledo. They knew of a lovely lady who was single. She was a highly respected English teacher in Toledo's Bowsher High School. After Andy and Lee spoke to her about me, she consented to allowing me to call her.

As soon as I met Elaine Markopoulos, I felt that we had to be together; however, the thought of bringing her into a family of barbaric men made me wonder if she could survive. We were married in the Holy Trinity Greek Orthodox Church that her father, John, an immigrant, helped to build. The barbarism stopped! Elaine was a little woman with a huge heart and she possessed the courage of a bear. She became "the law." First, she established the respect she deserved; then she made the boys love her as much as she loved them. Being the finest cook the boys had ever known helped in both pursuits.

The year before I met Elaine, I had the unfortunate distinction of being recognized by the BG News as one of the top ten worst dressed professors on campus. It was no wonder. All of my clothes had been purchased at Goodwill Industries or at the Salvation Army. The money I had saved allowed me to purchase new clothes for the rest of my family. My purchasing habit ended abruptly!

Elaine had incredible taste in clothes, art, literature, architecture, etc. She took charge of buying clothes and everything else for the family. When the boys were growing up, I always told them that if they would each practice three hours or more every day, they would be able to go to college without having to pay.

Furthermore, I told them that if they would work hard until they reached the age of 18, they could play hard until they reached the age of 80. They believed me. My advice began to pay off when they began winning contests both in violin performance and in music composition. Wallace and Alex tied for first place in a state composition contest and their respective works were published. Jason had a flair for writing music, but would not take an interest in promoting it. After Zach's first composition, I could not inspire him to write any more music; neither could I coax him to keep practicing the violin!

Wally started winning contests. He became the Michigan State fiddle champion when he was 16; then he won a scholarship to attend Interlochen's famous music camp. At the age of 15, Alex was invited to play on the Little Jimmy Dickins country music show. Jimmy Dickins was a staple of Nashville's Grand Old Opry. When Jason was 15, he won the Chautauqua (NY) concerto competition and played with the youth orchestra. Everyone was racing toward his own dream except Zach.

The Toledo Orchestra had an annual talent search to afford young people the opportunity to solo with the orchestra in Toledo's largest concert hall. Since both Alex and Jason had previously won the competition, Zach was interested. He wanted to see his name on the marquee just as he had seen the names of his brothers in past years. When the day of the competition arrived, he was not



well prepared. His performance was not clean. Before the judges made their decision, I went backstage to see Zach. He was sitting down, head bowed and despondent.

"I was really awful, wasn't I?" he mumbled.

"You've got that right," I said. "Don't expect to be in the winner's circle. You didn't practice." Just as I was about to go on with my tirade, we heard Zach's name called to appear on stage for the judge's decision. The three judges determined that Zachary De Pue had won the contest! When he came off stage, he knew by the expression on my face that I thought he didn't deserve the victory.

"Zach, do you remember all the times when you and your brothers were cheated by contest judges? Well, this time, everyone else was cheated but you. Now, in six weeks, you will have the opportunity to make an ass out of yourself in front of a paying audience. All you have to do is practice the way you have been practicing."

That positive/negative experience, more than any other, started Zach's career. When he performed with the Toledo Orchestra, he was superb. The standing ovation given him by the audience made him understand the rewards of being prepared. He won practically every competition he entered after the Toledo Orchestra experience. His musical abilities blossomed as he enjoyed one success after another.

The boys' auditions for scholarships at various universities would make an interesting book. February is the month when most auditions are held, and also the month when driving conditions in Ohio and Michigan become horrible. As one boy after another played scholarship auditions, one-after-another, the traveling adventures piled up. Each son had some quality time with his dad, even though we had automobile accidents, mechanical troubles, sickness, etc. Ultimately, Wally attended Bowling Green State University, Alex dropped out of college after two years at BGSU to pursue his desire to fiddle, and both Jason and Zach wound up at the Curtis Institute of Music in Philadelphia. When the smoke cleared, Wally had completed 99% of his requirements for a doctorate in violin performance at the University of Texas (Austin), Alexander became the fiddler for Chris Cagle, a rising star in country music, and Jason and Zach became tenured members of the first violin section of the Philadelphia Orchestra.

The first concert of the De Pue Brothers happened at BGSU on December 20, 2001. Alex organized the entire event and did an incredible job. He asked me to lead the audience in singing "Silent Night" at the end of the concert. He said that he and his brothers would accompany me. As I was singing, I noticed the accompaniment behind me thinning out until there wasn't any. The boys had sneaked away to the wings and had left me alone on the stage! The audience rose in unison and applauded before I understood what was happening. My sons were honoring me! My life had never had a greater thrill.

Now, Alex is planning another concert for the De Pue Brothers. On December 20, 2003, at 8:00 PM, the De Pue Brothers will perform in Toledo's Stranahan Theater. They have already made a fantastic CD of their program. After the concert, the CD will be available to the audience. My firm belief is that their family name will be much in the news during the years to come. To put it simply, The De Pue Brothers are absolutely sensational violinists and entertainers…but more importantly, they are strong, compassionate men of outstanding character. God is good.

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The Wallace DePue Stories

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