The Patrimony of Music: A Letter to My Grandpa

Dear Grandfather,

I write this letter to you approximately 36 years after your death. 

We lived some 375 miles away from you when I was growing up, so I did not have the opportunity to know you well. And by the time of your funeral in 1989 you had been in the throes of deep decline and dementia for years. But you were the patriarch of the family, my father’s father; I know more of you from family lore passed down through stories than I ever saw with my own eyes.

Your story is well known. You earned generational wealth as a successful banker, and you and your wife raised four outstanding children who have all accomplished much. From a comfortable upbringing in the Main Line suburbs outside Philadelphia, you raised your children in the solid embrace of the Roman Catholic Church. You gave your children educational opportunities at Phillip Exeter Academy, and then Cornell, Harvard, and Notre Dame Universities. Your children had every opportunity to excel in life, and every expectation that they live up to your hopes for them. Your first son became a doctor, the next a lawyer, and the third a priest; that is almost the perfect trifecta in the United States for mid-20th century Catholic families. You built a FAMILY.

You and your wife paid attention to your children when they were young, and you laid out a plan to help them get to where they wanted to be as adults. You laid the groundwork for them when they were growing up, and then you insisted they follow through on their responsibilities. You had high expectations; you held them accountable. Success abounded. Grandpa, that is why you are the PATRIARCH.

I occasionally read about some irresponsible and impecunious man who in his lifetime manages to get several women pregnant and then abandons them all (and his offspring, too). In that I see everything you were NOT in your life.

I could of course say “thank you” for everything you provided directly for your son, my father (and his siblings). Your positive influence on him has indirectly but powerfully benefitted me, too. And I am grateful.

But I am writing today to thank you for your birthday presents to me from around 1977 to 1980. To be more specific, for the classical music records which reliably arrived at my house when I was between 11- and 14-years of age. I was in that fragile, combustible, and all-important “tween” time of life, when a person is vulnerable and could go one way or another. A 13-year old is looking out into the wider world for cultural influences and role models on which to construct an emerging adult identity. Such a boy needs plenty of support and guidance, especially from the men in his life. I sure did.

At this time of life I remember one year, in particular, when a birthday gift from you arrived: a 33 rpm record of Ludwig Von Beethoven’s 8th Symphony, with Eugene Ormandy directing the Philadelphia Orchestra. Today in the age of streaming music onto digital devices we forget the tactile pleasures of the vinyl record, and its cardboard enclosure with beautiful art decorating it. I remember that Cleveland Orchestra record cover was luxuriously dark green. I remember putting the black vinyl record onto the record player where it would spin at 33 rpm and then sitting back and luxuriating in the music. There was the “snap, crackle, pop” of the ol’ fashioned acoustic recording, so different from the clean digital sound today.

I listened to Beethoven’s 8th Symphony every day for a month or two. In researching the piece I remember learning the 8th was considered one of Beethoven’s lesser symphonies; it was said to be superficially charming but lacked the depth and edge of Beethoven’s better-known symphonies. I remember feeling defensive about the 8th and wanting to stand up for it. 45 years later I recognized that artistic judgement is correct, although nobody needs to apologize for enjoying Beethoven’s 8th Symphony. It is just that the 3rd, 5th, 7th, and 9th are SO MUCH BETTER.

But, grandpa, it was your gift to me – at a certain time of life, in a specific context – which helped to encourage me to become a lifelong classical music lover. My father’s extensive collection of vinyl records was of course more influential: all the George Frederick Handel, the JS Bach, the Mozart. But your contribution was not nothing. Whenever I hear or read of Leopold Stokowski, Eugene Ormandy, George Szell, Herbert von Karajan, Leonard Bernstein, or any of the other giants of mid-20th century classical music, I think of you. There have been two or three subsequent generations of heavy-weight symphony directors since then, but no matter. The all-stars of that time – your time, grandpa – hold their own today.

Some twenty years ago I was driving my father somewhere when “Der Rosenkavalier” by Richard Strauss came over the car radio. My father spontaneously broke out in tears, surprising me. When the piece was over and he had regained control, my father explained that the music reminded him of his childhood when his father would play that piece. I knew my grandfather was a workable amateur pianist himself, and that after dinner he would occasionally recite poetry or play Chopin or Mozart on the piano. This was the musical legacy you, my grandfather, transmitted to him. That was one generation. And then my father’s own extensive record collection and passion for classical music he transmitted to me, along with the records you sent me on my birthday. That was the next generation.

My brother and sister inhabited the same household I did while growing up. While they enjoy classical music, it has not taken with them anywhere like it has with me. For the past five decades I have seen classical music concerts, shared new discoveries, and exchanged opinions about the genre with my father. Classical music has always been a comfortable and pleasurable association between us. I saw Bach’s Goldberg Variations live in Santa Monica with my father early one night in April of 1999 when I was 32-years old, and then afterwards I went out with friends in Los Angeles where I met my future wife. Part of the reason she said she was initially attracted to me was because I was a grown man going to see a classical music concert with my dad. My to-be wife was a classical music lover, too. Our first date was to see the violinist Hillary Hahn play in Royce Hall at UCLA. Soon after that we watched a piece penned by Gustav Mahler at the Clark Library near USC which was so unmelodious that we both left laughing. I planned to propose to her in 2002 after watching the Vienna Philharmonic play Beethoven’s Sixth Symphony at Segerstrom Hall. The soundtrack for the birth of my first daughter in 2007 was JS Bach’s Cello Sonata No. 1. When the doctors and extended family finally left us alone in the hospital room, after all the blood and sweat of the labor and delivery were over, our new family got to know each other while surrounded by the caressing sound of Yo-Yo Ma’s cello. “Hello, daughter Julia. I am your dad, Richard.”

While I introduced myself, my wife recovered and the baby breastfed. The music set the scene. It went exactly as I had envisioned it. 

A similar situation occurred with my second daughter, Elizabeth. I took up the newborn in my arms and introduced myself and told her of all the wonderful things we were going to do together.

We ended up doing ALL those activities together, and more.

Grandpa, you were an older bachelor when you got married back in 1936. And you were an older-than-most grandfather and somewhat distant when I grew old enough to get to know you. You and I never lived near each other. So we never became close in the way I see some kids become with their grandparents – to some children their grandparents are almost more important than their parents. That was not the case with us.

But as I now approach the autumn of my own life, I must give credit where credit is due. I appreciated the music you sent to me back during the time of the Jimmy Carter Administration. You might have sent me those records as an obligation for a grandchild’s birthday. They might have been minor presents conferred to keep up appearances. But I listened to those records a lot. Whatever few bucks those 33 rpm vinyl records cost you, the investment paid off many times over in value conferred. As a career banker and successful investor, I know you always appreciated a profitable investment. And as a classical music lover yourself, you helped make me one, also.

So it is only right that I thank you, all these years later. 

Rest easy, Phillip J. Geib, Sr. Your family name continues on proudly and successfully, as well as everything else it stands for.