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The school hired a few members of the Minneapolis Symphony to fill out the orchestra, and they managed to get through the snow to the auditorium halfway through the program in time to play the piece at the end.
I graduated with a major in music education and a minor in philosophy. Guess which field might lead to a job; no ads in the paper read, "Philosophers needed, top pay, will supply hemlock."
That summer, I did farm work while forcing my hands to get ready for an audition at the Juilliard School of Music. Even if I didn't get in, at least I'd have a nice tan. During that summer, I had to perform a most peculiar task: One of my uncles raised beef cattle, and breeding time was upon us. He had a short-legged bull and one very long-legged cow, so we dug a trench and backed the cow into it. Somehow, my uncles volunteered me to hold the cow by its halter while they let the bull into the lot. I spent the whole time staring straight ahead, humming, and trying to look indifferent. (The project was a success.)
After baling hay one morning, we sat around in the shade, and I noticed an inchworm moving along the ground. An inchworm has a few legs close the front and back ends but no legs in the middle section and apparently can't see. In case you've spent your whole life indoors, here's a quick description of its movement:
At 1, it hunches together; at 2, stands on its back legs feeling around with its front legs; at 3, sets its front legs down; and at 4, lifts its back legs bringing them right up behind the front legs, ready for 1 again. I tried a little experiment that produced amazing results.
1) I laid an empty pop-bottle down with the open neck in front of the inchworm. It went inside and traveled clear to the other end.
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