Leo, The Organmaster Tales From the Front Copyright 1996 by Dave Laird Nearly everyone, at one time or another, has heard the voices, chanting, speaking in unbounded, unbridled tones of ruby daylight, imparting a knowledge of the beauty of things into our shattered lives. A few, either out of curiosity or course, have actually seen the soul of a great pipe organ, the pit from which beauty rumbles forth, teetering on dulcet, tremulous footsteps to walk through the tops of the churches and theaters which they live. Very few, indeed,have walked high up in the loft among the stilled voices, row upon row of golden throats strangely hushed, and seen in awe the beauty of their stillness. Who among us has actually touched the row upon row of ivory keys, reverently moved one of the fifty or so stops which control the great voices overhead? Imagine the feeling of power, sitting before the source of such authority, inwardly knowing the correct steps, the finite number of adjustments needed, to bring those great voices into play, to shake the foundations, to thrill the stars with such beauty. Only chosen novitiates, carefully cultured for their skills, touch and ear have actually sat down, to worship before the throne of such sounds as have thrilled mankind since the beginning of music. These concert masters alone actually touch the keys, adjust the voices, while we hear over our heads, the sonorous voice of the pipes come to life under their fingers. Logic would have it, then, that in the event that one of the great organs should fail, a search of incredible proportions would take place to find someone to carefully, delicately renew this sacred and holy trust between machine and sound. Perhaps it would be a seat on a valve, grommet on one of the golden pipes that somehow failed to operate, and the call would sent forth to bring in the organmaster to remedy the problem, so that once again the great voices could blast forth, or whisper as they were wont. Leo sits the corner of the principal coffee shop in Springdale, Washington alone each day, gazing reflectively out the window, onto the street or reading his cherished monthly copy of The Organist Magazine. To many in the tiny burg of Springdale, he is known as the refrigerator man, for his particular talent at repairing or renewing many of the old refrigerators in town. To others, he simply the graveyard shift cook at at the Loon Lake Lodge. Looking somewhat like an animated Pillsbury Doughboy, all dressed in his white uniform, ready for work, he would seem to be the last person they would call to work upon the complex, delicate collection of systems that makes up a concert pipe organ. He is among the shadowy collective of men and women who minister the needs of the great organs in much of Washington State, the final authority they call when one of the great voices is stilled. He has worked on them all, at one time or another, and late one afternoon, sitting in the sunshine streaming joyously cackling through the window, he began to talk of the great organs and of his love for them. "You know, of course, that you cannot find, much less buy parts for any of the few pipe organs left. Nearly every brass fitting, every valve, has to be made hand created out of something else. have taken parts from watches, parts from television sets, even an automotive part one time, to fix these old gals. They are really quite something to work on." "I didn't tell you, I have a set of twenty-two foot pipes up the house, did I?" he suddenly asks, changing the subject. "I got them when they tore down the Marquis Theater Seattle a few years back. There wasn't really anything wrong with them, so I bought the whole shooting match, pipes, pump and keyboards, and hauled it all up here. took me about two years to assemble, and another year to get the old gal tuned up. I play them ever so often, usually when I get home in the morning." He laughs easily, his girth moving as animated as his eyes are sparkling over the tops of his glasses, and he adds, "Most the problems with these old organs simply are that they are dirty. That's the secret with nearly all of them. The Germans and the Swiss built nearly every big set of pipes in the United States today, and they built these old gals to last forever with only a little care. So my toolbox often consists of just a canister vacuum cleaner. You ought to see some of these folks' faces when I stroll in the door with THAT under my arm." "The oldest organ I ever worked on? Well, believe that would have be the forty foot pipes at the Paramount Theater in Seattle. They were shipped over from Germany in 1919. Originally installed in the Orpheus Theater New York, then the Opera House in San Francisco in 1943. They finally made their way up here in 1962 and were installed by the grandson of the original manufacturer. When he passed away in 1974, the folks that owned the Paramount called me, and I have been going there ever since." "There's really not that much to one of the old gals. Just a collection of valves, some kind of a pump to run it all, and the fittings and piping in between. That's why they last forever." He sighs, remembering his car, which has thrown a clutch. "Now if they built cars like they built these pipe organs, half the auto mechanics in this country would broke, which wouldn't hurt my pocketbook at all." "It's not a way for a man with a family to make a living. think the last time I actually got called to go work on an organ was this last summer. An old Swiss machine in Redmond suddenly developed a wheeze during church services one Sunday, and they couldn't figure it out. It was the bellows, you see. This was an old, old gal, that still used the electric bellows system favored so heavily by the Swiss. I had to build them a new pump. By the time I had the pump installed, repaired a few bad valve seats I'd found and tuned the pipes, I'd been there for three days straight." "I played my first pipe organ when I was 19. I was living in San Francisco at the time, and work was hard to come by in those days. I was sweeping out several of the theaters each night, after the performances, for a place to sleep and three square meals, some of which I had to cook. When wasn't otherwise preoccupied, was taking organ lessons from the chief organist. He taught me everything know about music. He was quite a man, Hiecht was. He had played every concert hall, every symphony hall in the country until the War came along. Because he was German, with the mass hysteria during World War II he couldn't make decent living until he finally came out west. That was just before the war ended. Then he started playing at various theaters and cathedrals in the Bay Area. That's where I first met him." "Well, I have to go to work. I'm the graveyard shift cook at the Loon Lake Lodge." With that, he headed out the door, into the fading light of the early winter evening. Early the next morning, as I was getting ready to return home, loading the last of my stuff into the car I suddenly heard music off in the distance. In the stillness the morning grey light, even the birds stopped singing, as if to listen, as first the bass, then the midrange and finally the entire ensemble of voices drifted up, up and up into the morning sky, slowly reassembled themselves and joining with one another in one great chorus of song and light. I remember how even the dewdrops, indelibly hanging from every tree and bush in town, answered the call of the great pipe voices, and in harmony, all of nature sat silent as upward and outward the great voices called, until all other sounds were silent, save for their magnificent clarion voices, calling back to me from every mountainside and valley. The old organmaster is still there in Springdale, alternating between fixing washing machines, slaving over a hot grill at night and travelling the ethereal flyways and byways known only to a very few, in this life.