"Aquarius" and the allure of tradition

 

I often talk about how much I enjoy being the public address announcer for various athletic teams and organizations at Wickliffe Upper School, which used to be "Wickliffe High School" and which I still often unconsciously refer to as "Wickliffe High School."

I'm in my 13th year as the announcer for the Wickliffe Swing Band. That's what we call our marching band, which isn't a traditional marching band but rather a "swing band" that incorporates a lot of energetic movement into its routines.

This swing style has been around for more than 50 years. Elements of it began to be incorporated in the early 1970s under the tutelage of legendary director Chuck Frank. It became the dominant style under the equally legendary Michael Elias, who was the director at Wickliffe when Terry and I were students there.

The swing style is so ingrained into the band's culture and sense of self that it would be almost unthinkable for the group to revert to being a more drill-oriented marching band.

I've heard that when the last few Wickliffe directors interviewed for the job, they were all told point blank they would be required to maintain the swing style. I don't know if that's true, but if it is, it doesn't surprise me.

If someone in Northeast Ohio happens to know anything at all about the Wickliffe Swing Band, it's usually that the band's longstanding signature routine is set to the song "Aquarius" from the 1967 musical "Hair."

POINT OF CLARIFICATION: We call the tune "Aquarius," but what the Wickliffe band plays is actually a mini-medley from "Hair" that combines two songs: "Aquarius" and "The Flesh Failures (Let the Sunshine In)." Few people these days know or even care about the distinction, but I thought I would mention it.

The Wickliffe Swing Band plays "Aquarius" every year. Year after year. For half a century. It always caps off their halftime performance at the homecoming football game, and it's their finale at every band festival.

The key moment in "Aquarius" is pictured at the top of today's post. The percussion section creates a little pyramid in which two bass drummers stand on their heads, two tenor drummers rest their instruments on the bass drums, and a cymbal player stands on top of that pyramid and bangs the cymbals together repeatedly while the rest of the band plays the soaring "Let the Sunshine In" chorus.

It's a bit risky. The cymbal player has to have a certain degree of leg strength to get to the top of the pyramid, as well as a good sense of balance to stay up there while playing.

I've watched this routine performed on muddy grass and pristine turf fields. In bright sunshine and cold drizzle. Probably 100 times or more in the last 40 years. I've never seen anyone in the pyramid hurt themselves, but it always concerns me.

The audience reaction to the "Aquarius" pyramid is predictable and enjoyable. There is loud applause and cheering, particularly from band members and parents from other schools. It's a fun and unique moment.

As I said, for many, it's what defines the Wickliffe Swing Band.

On the other hand...

I'm in the press box when "Aquarius" is played, so I'm often privy to somewhat different reactions. While there are still cheers and clapping, I also get to hear from those who aren't big fans of "Aquarius."

These are often band directors and music educators from other schools who have seen the routine many times. They occasionally say to me, in a semi-whisper with somewhat raised eyebrows and a derisive tone, "You guys are still playing that? When will you retire it?"

I never know what to say in response to these comments, but I understand them.

Some of these press box critics see "Aquarius" as a cheap novelty ploy for applause and cheers. Maybe they're jealous, or maybe they have a point.

Others wonder what students learn if they play the same song and perform the same types of routines year after year. And again, maybe they have a point.

Don't get me wrong: I still love "Aquarius." I love hearing the appreciative comments and seeing the positive reactions on social media. I'm proud to be a Wickliffe alumnus and a lifelong resident of the city. The response to "Aquarius" gives me immense satisfaction.

But I encounter these "give it a rest already" people far more often than I ever tell band staff, parents and students. Believe me, for every 10 people standing and applauding, there is at least one other person rolling their eyes.

It makes me ponder how the band should balance maintaining its cherished traditions on one hand and expanding students' musical horizons and helping them become more well-rounded musicians on the other.

I don't have the answer, nor is it my place to make any real decisions. I'm just the guy behind the mic. I work for the director, and I like it that way.

What I do know is, if a new director ever comes in and decides to retire "Aquarius," I may also be needed to step in and protect that person from the mob of Wickliffians who will inevitably storm the school in support of their favorite Swing Band routine.

(If you'd like to see "Aquarius" performed, this is what it looked like at halftime of the 2023 homecoming football game. The video, which will open in a new window, should start right at the mid-song percussion break just before the pyramid is formed.)

The 10 bucks I spent to become a licensed "minister" was the easiest part of my son's upcoming wedding

I read that more a million weddings are performed each year in the United States "by friends, family, or online-ordained non-traditional officiants."

In three months, I will become one of those "non-traditional officiants."

My son Jared and his fiancée Lyndsey are getting married this New Year's Eve. It's one of the more popular topics of conversation in our family, second perhaps only to almost anything my grandson Cal does.

(I've always assumed that at some point, relatively new grandparents like Terry and me stop obsessing over their grandchild. So far it hasn't happened for us.)

Anyway, regardless of Cal's exalted status, we're all excited for the big December 31st wedding shindig. It will be the social event of the year for the Tennants, though I admit I harbor some degree of worry over the weather.

If you live near us, you may recall that last New Year's Eve was a meteorological mess. Snow, ice, wind, etc. It felt like Terry and I were taking our lives into our hands as we drove home from my daughter Chloe and son-in-law Michael's house at 1 in the morning.

Pretty typical late-December stuff in Northeast Ohio, but we're hoping that weather situation doesn't repeat itself this year.

Regardless, I have a role to play in the wedding beyond just being the father of the groom. Jared and Lyndsey asked me to officiate their wedding, and of course I said yes.

Becoming a licensed wedding officiant in the State of Ohio is a pretty quick and painless process. I filled out a form on the website of an organization called American Marriage Ministries and was instantly ordained, free of charge.

I then took their certificate of ordination and submitted it to the Ohio Secretary of State's office, along with a $10 administrative fee. My minister's license was approved a day later, and they sent me this lovely document making the whole thing official:

The bureaucratic part was easy. Now comes the real challenge, which is figuring out exactly what I'm going to say and how this whole wedding ceremony thing is supposed to work.

I've sat through a dozen or more weddings, so I generally know how they go. And of course I'll need to talk with Lyndsey and Jared to see what they want their ceremony to look like.

Both are now in their late 20s and more mature than I was when I got married at the age of 22. In most cases when I was asked what I wanted when it came to my own wedding, I deferred to Terry. I'm guessing my son and future daughter-in-law are going to come at it in a more adult fashion than I did.

A lot of planning for this wedding (including my specific role) will be done in the last two months, as Jared's job with baseball's Tampa Bay Rays puts a ton of demands on his time until the seasons ends in October. There's simply not much he can do until the Rays' last out is recorded.

I figure my job during the wedding will be to keep my comments short and sweet, emphasize whatever it is the bride and groom want to emphasize, and make sure I stand back and allow Jared and Lyndsey to be the stars of the show.

There is likely to be a dad joke or two, and I make no promises that I won't shed a tear. Or two. Or possibly 10.

All I know is, I will feel a mixture of relief and happiness when the ceremony ends and we can all get to eating our catered dinners and doing the Chicken Dance.

I can't wait.

Melanie and the unhelpful tag of the "gifted" student

Mel and me, circa 2004

Today is our daughter Melanie's 26th birthday, a joyous occasion to celebrate one of the smartest, funniest, most beautiful people I know.

It's also a day on which I wonder how helpful it is for our education system to brand some young kids as "gifted" and others not.

To explain...

When I was a student at Mapledale Elementary School back in the late 70s and early 80s, there was a point at which they separated some of us into an honors class. I don't know how they determined this, whether it was by test scores, subjective teacher evaluations, or a combination.

Whatever the criteria, those of us branded as "smart" were suddenly segregated from our classmates to experience a somewhat advanced curriculum designed for "gifted" students.

The "gifted" label stuck with us through the rest of our public schooling, for better or worse.

The better part of it, I suppose, was that thinking of myself as a smart kid gave me a confidence that was at times helpful and at other times wholly undeserved. Either way, I tried a lot of different things growing up because I figured that, as a gifted student, I would probably be good at them.

That was not usually the case. Not by a longshot.

The sobering part of being one of the smart kids is that, at some point later in life, you come to realize you're not necessarily any smarter than anyone else. Or at least I know I'm not.

I got to be in the honors classes not because of an elevated IQ or exceptional talent, but rather because of my chronic need to please and subsequent drive to study hard and meet expectations. I worked hard and got good grades, so they figured I must be smart. The jury is still out on that one.

So what does any of this have to do with Melanie?

Also Mel and me, also circa 2004

Mel did very well in school, but she was the only one of our kids who wasn't part of Wickliffe's "Above & Beyond" program for gifted students. Again, I don't know why her siblings got in and she didn't, and ultimately it probably doesn't matter.

One time, a friend of the family found out Mel was the one Tennant kid not in A&B and jokingly said to her, "Oh, so you're the dumb one?"

It was NOT helpful, and it was obviously untrue to anyone who knew our family at all.

Terry, especially, spent years working with Mel to boost her self-confidence. Mel is as smart and as capable as any of her brothers and sisters, "gifted" or not. Talk with her for 5 minutes and you'll realize how sharp she is.

All of which makes me wonder what "smart/gifted" really means for an 11-year-old, and whether we're doing more harm than good withholding that designation from kids who, over time, show themselves to be every bit the equal (or superior) of their supposedly advanced peers.

It all worked out in Melanie's case, and for that we're grateful. Happy birthday to my 26-year-old smart kid!

Walking away from a dream gig for all the right reasons

While it never has been (and never could be) my primary source of income, I have been working as a sports public address (PA) announcer for the last 12 years.

It started in 2014 at Wickliffe High School, my alma mater, as the announcer for the wonderful Wickliffe Swing Band. From there I moved into announcing for various Blue Devil sports, including football, soccer, volleyball, and basketball, all of which I still do.

I also picked up work at other nearby high schools and colleges, and I even had a stint as the PA guy for a now-defunct minor league hockey team in Mentor, Ohio.

The pinnacle came in April 2025, when I began announcing for minor league baseball's Lake County Captains, the High A affiliate of the Cleveland Guardians. It was a dream assignment, largely because I saw it as the highest level of PA work I'm likely to achieve. It was also a job previously held by the great Ray Milavec, my 10th-grade English teacher and someone whose PA style I admire.

Over the last two seasons, I have been the announcer for 73 Captains games, all of which have been fun and a true privilege.

However, a week ago Saturday marked the last Captains game I will announce, as I've decided not to return for a third season with the team.

This was entirely my call, and it had nothing at all to do with the Captains. Everyone with whom I've dealt in the organization has been great, notably my game day bosses Jason and Jack, on-field host Liv, and PA announcing partner Thom. The Captains' front office is comprised of hard-working people who do their best to create an enjoyable fan experience despite significant obstacles.

My decision was very much a personal one. I have loved being the Captains' primary PA announcer this season, but the time commitment is simply too much at this stage (and perhaps any stage) of my life.

On game days, I'm at the ballpark for 5 to 7 hours, arriving 2 to 3 hours before first pitch to do everything I need to do to prepare.

Multiply that by four games – sometimes five – out of every six-game homestand over a period of 5+ months, and the time adds up.

It's time that's precious for me as a husband, father, relatively new grandfather, and corporate communications professional. I ended up missing several family functions this past season as a result of my Captains commitments. I also had to take PTO/vacation time from work to be able to get to the stadium for some afternoon games and early doubleheaders.

Every game was fun, but none of it was nearly as important as spending time with Terry, the kids, and our little grandson Cal. The only sensible decision was to vacate the PA chair in favor of somebody else and regain that lost time for the things that truly matter.

The Captains have treated me so well, and I'll forever be grateful for the opportunity, but it's best for me to step aside after two short seasons. The next time I'm at Classic Auto Group Park, it will be as a fan.

I'll continue announcing sports at Wickliffe until I'm so old I can't remember who I am, or until they tell me not to come back – whichever comes first.

In the meantime, I'll continue working to keep my priorities straight.

Thanks to the Captains for the opportunity, and thanks to God for giving me enough sense to figure out what I needed to do.

Onward and upward!

I'm pretty sure I saw the original "Star Wars" in the summer of 1977...I think?

Last night, Terry and I were at Blossom Music Center to hear the Cleveland Orchestra play the music of John Williams, he of movie soundtrack composing fame. We had a wonderful time, but then, how couldn't we? It was John Williams. And the Cleveland Orchestra. Conducted by the amazing Sarah Hicks. Outside on a late summer evening.

From "Jaws" and  "E.T." to "Raiders of the Lost Ark" and "Jurassic Park," I associate Mr. Williams' music with wonderful memories from many stages of my life.

I remember, for example, being awed by his "Star Wars" film score when I saw the movie in 1977 at the Great Lakes Mall cinema complex in Mentor, Ohio.

Or at least I think I remember that. At this point in my existence, nearly 57 years on, I've come to realize that certain of my memories are not memories at all, but rather things I only believe to have happened.

I know this because I will relay anecdotes from my past and find myself being corrected by a friend who was there or (in the case of my high school athletic career) a newspaper article telling a different story.

So when I say I think I saw "Star Wars" in the theater, it's either something that really happened or something I wish had happened. I can't be sure which.

Whatever the case, my memory is that I went with the Wuicik family, our neighbors from across the street. The boys Jason and Billy were constant companions in my early years, and I definitely do remember going with them and their mom to the drive-in to see "Smokey and the Bandit."

Assuming the "Star Wars" thing also really happened, it probably would have been only the second or third time in my life I had been in a movie theater. We weren't a movie-going family, though I do remember – or again, believe I remember – my mom taking me to see Disney's "Escape to Witch Mountain" in 1975 or '76, my first theater experience.

My memory of "Star Wars" (real or not) is having been blown away by the visuals, sound, and music. It was unlike any other entertainment available at the time.

I do know for a fact I saw "Empire Strikes Back" in that same theater in 1979, because I vividly recall seeing people dressed up in Darth Vader and Chewbacca costumes in the lobby.

OK, maybe saying I know that "for a fact" is a little strong. But I am more confident that one actually happened.

Or at least I think I am. Who can say?

The tenuous reality of the blessed life

I don't spend a lot of time on the Threads social media platform, but recently I found myself there. I came across a post from a fellow Gen Xer lamenting how difficult it is to be in your mid- to late 50s.

At this age, the person wrote, you're sometimes caring for elderly parents AND your older children AND even grandchildren.

You're often slogging toward retirement with insufficient savings and no desire to play the corporate politics necessary to get ahead...all while reporting to a boss 20 years younger.

And you're starting to experience the feeling that the world might be passing you by, both culturally and technologically.

Those are all valid points, and I see them up close and personal in many of my peers.

Which is why I'm somewhat embarrassed to tell you that, so far, my 50s have been the greatest decade of my life.

I feel wonderful, I have lots of energy, I've learned some things, I get to do engaging work every day, and I'm blessed to have hobbies I enjoy. I have an amazing wife of 34 years, five great kids, and the best little grandson anyone could ask for.

I also have a relatively short runway ahead of what is shaping up to be a fairly comfortable retirement.

And while the reason for it is sad, I don't have any older parents or in-laws to care for simply because they have all passed on. I miss them terribly and often wish I had that sort of "burden" in my life.

By any definition, though, mine is a blessed existence. I couldn't relate to that post on Threads.

But here's the thing: All of it can change in a second.

One grim medical diagnosis. One corporate restructuring. One stock market crash. One disastrous car accident.

Any one of those things (and any of a thousand other imagined calamities) would immediately transform my sunny situation to one of worry and despair.

I am acutely aware of this. I know how close I am to being in very different circumstances. "There but for the grace of God" is a thought that runs through my head multiple times a day.

You never know what life is going to throw at you. I'm not owed anything. I've done nothing to deserve the good things I have, any one of which could go away tomorrow.

(This is not meant to be pessimistic, by the way. Just realistic.)

Many of us in this part of the world live in an artificially comfortable bubble. We are seemingly immune to war, famine and persecution. We have access to advanced medical care. Our social safety nets are deep and wide.

This is especially true if you're of my particular demographic. Socioeconomically speaking, the system is constructed so that people like me will probably succeed.

Somewhere along the line, though, things will get harder. It's inevitable.

In the meantime, all I can think to do is live a life of cliches:

I take it one day at a time.

I help others when I can.

I frequently take stock of everything I have, and I thank God for it all.

Someday, when the rain falls a little harder (maybe sooner than I realize), I hope I continue thanking Him. I hope I will be humble, grateful, and happy. I hope I will appreciate the valleys after spending so many years on the peaks.

I don't know what lies ahead, but I do know how good I have it right now. And for the moment, I hope that's enough.

5 things I've learned having been a grandparent for one year

Me, Cal, and my daughter Chloe

Tomorrow our grandson Calvin turns a year old. I am not the first grandparent to marvel over how quickly time passes, nor will I be the last.

But I'll say it anyway: I can't believe it has been a year already.

Cal is one of the funniest human beings I know. He constantly makes me laugh. Sometimes I think this is intentional on his part, other times I think it's just his quirky personality coming through.

Either way, the kid kills me. I love him so much.

I don't promise any special insight in this post, but here are five quick things I've learned in my first year of being Grandpa Scott:

(1) Having a grandchild can make you realize things you should have done when raising your own kids: I can't speak for other grandparents, but sometimes when I'm watching Cal, I think back to when our kids were little and ways I could have been a better dad to them. Which makes me a little sad. I always wanted to be the best father I could, but I don't think you can completely avoid mistakes when you're in the thick of parenthood. You just do your best, move on, and don't beat yourself up over it. 

(2) Never undermine your own kids' approach to parenting: One time, my dad (a man who loved the role of grandpa more than anyone I've ever known) gave Elissa chips even after Terry said she couldn't have them. He just couldn't say no to his little granddaughter, but sometimes you have to. Never contradict Mom and Dad.

(3) Speaking of which, you have more leeway to be your grandchild's friend, but remember you're still a grandPARENT: I've been calling Cal my little buddy from the first time I met him in the hospital. He and I play and laugh and have a great time together. But I also see my role as supplementary to whatever learning and discipline he's getting at home. It's easier for grandparents to be "friends" with a child than it is for parents. But as with item #2 above, it can't come at the expense of what your son/daughter and their partner are trying to do as the mother and father.

(4) If you'll forgive the cliche, the greatest gift you can give grandchildren is your time: Offer to babysit as much as you can, show up at their house whenever there's a chance. Be as much a part of their lives as circumstances will allow. They'll be better for it, and so will you.

(5) Love them. That's it, just love them: This isn't groundbreaking stuff, but it's profound. You don't have to read grandparenting books or earn a degree in child psychology to have a lasting positive effect in the life of your grandchild. Just love them. Let them know they're loved. Be there for them whenever you can. Over and over, day after day, for as long as you're around. That's job #1, Grandma and Grandpa, so get to it.