on Richard Forrest Woods – Part 19

This is the final installment of a biography of mentor and friend Dick Woods. See here for the entire series.

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About the author

Because my time in Houston was so formative, it was all too easy to pepper my own memoirs throughout the posts on Dick Woods at St. John the Divine, Houston. Had I published this as a bona fide biography of him, those personal memoirs and musings might have gotten in the way of his narrative and would have to be managed carefully in footnotes. But some of that personal material presented itself as a curious new creation here: a version of my own biographical sketch as told through the experience of working with Dick:

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As a fellow from the city of Statesville in the piedmont / foothills region of North Carolina [not to be confused, please, with Statesboro, Ga., nor with the Stateville Correctional Center in Ill.], I was raised on Hamburger Helper, livermush, hot dogs, Shoney’s, green beans, sweet tea, Dairy Queen, and no alcohol. It was the usual Southern childhood involving the usual Southern style of parenting and the usual profound loathing of junior high school. It also included the usual piano lessons, beginning at age 8.

After six years of piano study with the most esteemed teacher in my area, my fortune took a turn when I attended the North Carolina School of the Arts as a piano principal, in the big city of Winston-Salem, forty miles from home. I spent three glorious years there, tenth through twelfth grades. From there, it was on to Appalachian State University in the smallish but growing town of Boone, N.C., 68 miles from home, to double-major in piano and organ performance. From there, it was on to Rice University in the gargantuan city of Houston, 1098 miles from home, to continue the journey in organ.

All that to say that upon my arrival in Houston in 1990, ‘country had come to town.’ Not only had I had no more than medium-sized church experience, the majority of it Baptist and the entirety of it non-liturgical, I also had the country boy thing going. Dick amused himself by repeating some of my vowels back to me. I distinctly remember one day asking him to ‘puht sum fraawnk aawn’ (‘put some Franck on’), and he chortled for days after that, repeating ‘fraawnk aawn’ several times. Although I experienced shame at that, it did much to awaken the professional listener in me. I began to tune in to every nuance of language and dialect as carefully as my professor Clyde Holloway was training me to listen to every note I played. And yes, you’re damn right (‘daay-um raat’) I am now the best listener in the music and language business.

I began to notice my North Carolina twang morphing into a Texas drawl. Meanwhile, I was quick to inform his holiness that by the way, my alma mater is pronounced app-a-LATCH-un, thank you [thaah-eenk yew] very much. Not app-a-LAYTCH-un nor app-a-LAYSH-un, and it was time for all youse Pittsburghers to learn that. Dick just called it ASU thereafter. Safer that way, no doubt.

I met Dick in April 1990. While I was in town hunting for an apartment for graduate school, my professor Clyde Holloway sent me to interview with Dick for the open position of Assistant Organist/Choirmaster. I began work at the church on August 1 of that year, as Dick’s last assistant. Dick told me he had to push a bit to get me past the Music Committee, sight unseen to them. He trusted Dr. Holloway’s recommendation of me for the position, and therefore he trusted me. And my hiring must have meant that the Music Committee trusted Dick that time.

I was on high alert. Everything was new, and everything was high-powered. Not only had I embarked at Rice University on the highest-stakes training endeavors of my life so far, but I was also thrilled yet nearly terrified to be in such a large city and such a large church and beginning to hear Texas-sized tales of money, music, accomplishment, and politics. Being on such high alert, I quietly filed away in my brain just about every lesson that came my way: to whom to speak, from whom to run, what to do or not do in this or that liturgy, how to behave, how to stop behaving, how to refine my choral accompanying skills, how to eat chips and salsa and drink margaritas, where to get a haircut, and how to navigate the quickest yet least pothole-plagued routes between my apartment and the church and Rice. These lessons came at me constantly, and I wanted to learn as much as I could. That was a delicate tightrope act, because I didn’t want anyone to discover that I actually didn’t know very much about anything in life beyond music. At the risk of unnecessary presentism all these years later, I have realized many times over just how naïve yet arrogant I really was. Surely Dick must have shielded me from more woes and foes than I realized, and surely the rector tolerated me more with Dick there to run interference.

After resigning from St. John’s in 1994, I took an interim position waaaaay across town at the Episcopal Church of the Holy Spirit. That was a disaster, honestly: I had left the place of Dick’s memory; I had left many friends in the choir; I was still quite young and inexperienced and yet placed in charge, and I was beginning to discover to my horror and annoyance how lax liturgy was becoming in all corners. Furthermore, Holy Spirit had just said goodbye to their own long-time music director [Brian Taylor, headed to St. Mary’s Cathedral in Memphis] and were as emotionally spent as I was. None of us gee-hawed very well, to quote my maternal grandmother. [Aside: I was also battling some tendonitis, and neither the three-manual tracker at that church nor the ten-key data entry at a side job helped with that. But all glory be to technique study with Clyde Holloway – I have been pain-free ever since.]

During that period, I also signed on with a temp agency to make ends meet, eventually landing full-time in an apartment management firm’s national home office. Dick was always perched on my shoulder, reminding me to keep the redneck in check. Funny thing was that I was surrounded by many more rednecks in that office than anywhere else. Rather, what I realized for the first time was that I had learned to function quite competently among collars of all colors, and I could just relax. That remains the most cathartic moment of my entire side career as a frequent counseling client.

In 1995, I signed on as organist at St. Philip Presbyterian, Houston, which I thoroughly enjoyed. Smartest, most musico-liturgical-savvy congregation I ever worked for. Then in 1997, the allure of the magnificent Aeolian-Skinner instruments at First Presbyterian beckoned, and I began a tenure there, having the musical time of my life but being reminded at every turn of the game of church politics. Dick tried to set up shop on my shoulder again, but there wasn’t room for him there anymore. I finally laid him to rest in about 1999, six years after his death.

I didn’t pick up any Pennsylvania Dutch from Dick, and I certainly avoided saying ‘Yewston.’ I lived in Houston 1990-2004 and since 2004 have been teaching at my alma mater back in North Carolina, where my original twang has not returned in the full force I expected. The Texas swagger and drawl have remained. I hear some of Clyde Holloway [Texarkana] in my voice now.

Ever since ‘Yewston,’ I have spotted various mentors just under the surface in nearly everything I do. I teach my organ students much like Clyde Holloway taught us. I mentor them much like my undergraduate professor H. Max Smith mentored us. I teach my sacred music students everything I got from Dick and then some. Only my music theory pedagogy appears to be my own, and that garnered me a teaching award in 2025. Meanwhile, much of my humor still comes from Dick and from my maternal grandfather and from a friend whom Dick hated but who was essential to his AIDS care.

The voice of this Southeastern-country-boy-turned-Texas-cowboy-turned-professor enjoys a bit of local celebrity now. In 2023 I was invited to serve as the Voice of the Appalachian State University Marching Mountaineers. It thrills me to no end to participate in that capacity, which I will do and keep teaching until I retire from Appalachian [again, that’s app-a-LATCH-un] in 2029. As it turns out, Dick would be 100. 

And with that, our lengthy series is ended. Nunc dimittis Richard Forrest Woods.

A few more little-known facts

I tend to accept the things I can’t change, keeping quiet about some things and otherwise choosing my battles carefully. But I can tell I’m turning into my grandfather. Witness:

Other than in movie theatres, it is foreign to me to require food and drink just to sit through a performance in a theatre. In my youth and college days it was unheard of to allow food and drink into, say, an opera or even a musical. And certainly not during church. I don’t think I’ll ever get used to all the coffee thermoses now in church, candy bars at orchestra concerts, and wine glasses at virtually everything. And when one considers the price markup of concessions at all theatres, then the ‘need’ for a plastic cup of wine appears to be more an addiction or nervous habit than anything else. I feel sorry-not-sorry for people when they learn they are not allowed to bring their salads and pinot grigio picnics into our student concerts at the university.

I shake my head over our addiction to noise: omnipresent earbuds, days-long playlists, resonant clubby restaurants, screaming children, Broadway live sound, souped-up motorcycle and car stereos, fireworks, dance clubs, and souped-up cars missing their mufflers. Seriously, are we really that afraid of our own thoughts anymore? Of course, I myself don’t seem to mind dozens of ranks of organ pipes sounding within striking distance; so there’s that.

I miss church weddings, even if I don’t miss playing for them. I have reached my limit for remote, expensive wedding venues that used to be hay barns.

I miss tuxedos on performers.

I miss white tie.

I miss matching socks.

I miss dress socks.

I miss any socks with suits.

I miss suit coats that cover the butt and actually button around the belly.

I miss dress shoes.

I still don’t like blond shoes with dark suits.

I don’t like that an untucked button-down with no blazer is now called ‘business casual,’ and a standard suit with tie is now called ‘formal.’ I suppose that means I’ll be considered a freak or an extra-terrestrial if I ever wear white tie or even black tie again, or if I tuck in my button-down and wear a belt with it.

I don’t miss men’s pants pulled up to the chest, nor neckties that barely make it past the sternum.

Speaking of ties, I miss symmetrical knots.

And I am completely at a loss to explain the proliferation of pajamas for public attire. Seriously, people, what happened?

In other news, I still believe in using hard-copy scores whenever possible. I suppose I would read from the original manuscript, if I could.

And I still believe in showing up early and in eating afterward with whoever wants to go and in talking about music and men’s ‘fashion’ and the grandfather I have apparently become.

Little-known facts, Part 4: My ecclesiastical history

Born Southern Baptist, Front Street Baptist Church, Statesville, N.C. The organ was a 1971 Greenwood, 9 ranks. But it was a pipe organ!

First organ gig: Supply Organist, First A.R. Presbyterian, Statesville, N.C. The organ was a thrilling (to a young kid in those days) Zimmer. With exposed pipes and everything! In Statesville, N.C.!

First Mass played: Christmas Eve and Christmas Day, 1985 or so, St. Philip the Apostle, Statesville.

First Episcopal Eucharist played: Trinity Church, Statesville, 1983 or so.

First regular church job: Junior year in college, 1988-1989, Crossnore Presbyterian, Crossnore, N.C. Eminent organ.

Next regular church job: Senior year in college, 1989-1990, Boone United Methodist Church, Boone, N.C. Schantz organ, 17 ranks. The largest pipe organ in a church in the county. And I had the keys to the building. I felt like the hottest thing on two legs.

Next: Grad school, 1990-1994: St. John the Divine (Episcopal), Houston. I was the Assistant Organist/Choirmaster to Richard Forrest Woods and then to John Gearhart. I was confirmed there by William Sterling, Bishop Suffragan of Texas. Have been an Episcopalian ever since. Big Wicks organ that played a mighty service on full-ish organ but had no individually lovely sounds on it. It has since been replaced by an enormous Letourneau.

Next: 1994-1995: Interim Organist/Choirmaster, Episcopal Church of the Holy Spirit, Houston. Not the happiest time. I felt like Bach returning home from the north and no one knew quite what to make of him. The people and I just didn’t gee-haw very well, and I still don’t know why, but I’m sure it was my fault. Young guy quitting the biggest Episcopal church in town to set out on his own and see what might come along? Yeah, that might be part of it. I also did a bit of battle with tendonitis (Visser-Rowland organ there, as well as a ten-key data entry job to make ends meet), but that was the turning point in my organ playing, because I honed my technique to eliminate the pain. It worked; the pain has never returned, and I did it without medical intervention except Aleve.

Next: 1995-1997: Organist, St. Philip Presbyterian Church. A turning point in my understanding of people, the Church, and myself. One of the most nurturing congregations I have encountered. God love them all. Fort/Visser-Rowland organ, electric action. A rather smooth sound that was oddly endearing. The organ has since been replaced by a perfectly splendid Fritts.

Next: 1997-2004: First Presbyterian, Houston. This was my last church before moving back to N.C. to teach at Appalachian. Also the longest I have served a church (7 years). And so my history there is rich and complicated, but during my time there, I learned a lot about the ins and outs of church politics, air conditioner breakdowns, organ maintenance, choral conducting, and chilling out [not!] over liturgical faux-pas and snafus. I also presided over the most beautiful organs in the state of Texas: Aeolian-Skinner Opp. 912 and 912A.

Next: 2009-2011: First Presbyterian, Lenoir, N.C. Aeolian-Skinner. I left this church because I got too busy on the road, where I really wanted to be anyway. I composed this blog post about my thinking at the time.

Next? Although I joyfully sub around, I have maintained for a few years that I can’t cram regular church service into my teaching and performing schedule any more. But I’m beginning to soften on that stance. Let’s check in with each other on that later.

Little-known facts, Part 3: Big toys

I grew up operating heavy construction equipment. Front-end loaders (of both wheel and track varieties), low-boys, dump trucks, motor graders, bulldozers, etc., even a few minutes on an old trencher. Now I play musical heavy equipment for a living. [How did I miss the blogging fodder in all this until now?]

I have played many organs that I love, but I don't have a favorite that I can think of this minute. But there is one piece of heavy equipment that is my favorite big toy on earth: a Caterpillar 930 front-end loader, born the same year as I. Oh, the earth, gravel, and snow I moved with that one. Responsive steering, intuitive bucket controls, and room for an admirer next to the driver's seat. I might not have picked up any women in it, but I kept them for longer when they sat in it with me.

All this occurred at Bell Construction Company, Statesville, N.C., founded in 1946 by my grandfather W.C. Bell and subsequently presided over by Uncle Boyce and then my father Donald. I was never paid, probably because I was young and a terrible operator, and Dad never wanted me to go into that business as a career, anyway. So I was always a tagalong, but I watched in awe as half the land in Rowan and Iredell Counties, N.C., was graded in site preparation. My dad was da man. And I still drive through those places with a sense of pride and fond memories. I am also happy to report that the company is doing as well as ever, under the leadership of cousin Dwayne Bell, since Dad's death in 2003.

And that Cat 930 is still going strong, which is more than I can say for some organs from that year. :)

Little-known facts, Part 2: Help wanted

Writing one’s own obituary is often suggested in books and seminars as a good way to assess one’s life and to help identify what’s important in life – and what’s not. I take that a step further and ask my students to compose an announcement of a “job opening” to “replace” them as students and budding professionals. I have them consider where they are at that time and write a job ad accordingly. Here’s mine, as of today:

WANTED: organ professor, organ recitalist, church organist

-- Must teach undergraduate, graduate, and secondary organ majors.

-- Must coordinate and teach sacred music curriculum.

-- Must teach service playing.

-- Must teach organ literature.

-- Must bring many years’ anecdotal experience to the classroom to illustrate how the world works.

-- Must conduct and/or accompany a large chorus made up of students and community members. Must find a way to keep them all entertained and/or educated at the same time.

-- Must enjoy playing organ recitals, piano collaborations, and Broadway shows.

-- Must be willing to perform minor organ repairs and touch up own reeds when necessary. This involves getting a helper to help move a 25-foot extension ladder and to hold keys, plus being willing to thumb nose at Physical Plant and OSHA regulations to climb the aforementioned ladder. All this must often be done in a suit and tie.

-- Must accompany faculty candidates on difficult pieces the piano faculty don’t have time to learn.

-- Must tune and play the harpsichord, upon which no training was ever received.

-- Must come to terms with the fact that the organ “teaching studio” is often mistaken for a concert hall during teaching hours.

-- Must enjoy playing with children and pets.

-- Must crack one-liners constantly to keep the social machine oiled.

-- Must graciously allow visitors to the organs at any time.

-- Must have a heart of tolerance and compassion for all people in their journey. Must, however, try not to suffer fools for too long.

-- Must hate weddings. Must be preparing a multi-multi-part blog series on that subject.

-- Must shun the administrative spotlight.

-- Must enjoy any music that is well-written or well-rehearsed, preferably both.

-- Must be a fan of good musicians, no matter what music they write or perform. Therefore, must be a fan of opera, orchestras, Broadway shows, conscientious church organists, Gordon Lightfoot, Ricky Skaggs, and ’80s Rock.

-- Must eat often with family and friends to celebrate the joys of being human.

-- Must celebrate position on food chain by being willing to eat absolutely anything any time. Must, however, prefer not to eat celery, raw onions, bell peppers, curry, liver, cilantro, or wild game.

-- Must be able to play the Vierne Carillon and In The Garden in the same service, probably not on the same instrument.

-- Must be able to recall and play on the piano any hymn from the 1956 Baptist Hymnal.

-- Must detest the current United Methodist Hymnal.

-- Must be patient around strangers when stuff goes wrong on the road.

-- Must enjoy church-hopping whenever possible.

-- Must enjoy re-visiting places of good childhood memories. Must enjoy going back home to visit every now and then.

-- Must recognize and thank the people who had an impact during the formative years.

-- Must go back and apologize to people who were wronged, no matter how long ago.

Little-known facts, Part 1

I often need to get in touch with my non-musical side. It’s right up there with my feminine side. People ask about hobbies, but I’ve never been sure that I need any regular hobbies, since my real job is so enjoyable. I do love getting outside and seeing beautiful scenery, but beyond that, I’m happy to practice and study. Enjoy some more tidbits with my compliments:

-- I couldn’t care less about the altar. I want to climb into the steeple!

-- I love funeral homes. Any time I visit one, I ask for a tour. I actually very nearly forsook the organ some years back to go into funeral directing. It is a dual attraction: the fascination with the industry and a tender heart for the grieving.

-- Chocoholic.

-- I hold a Private Pilot certificate (aka pilot’s license). That was my graduation gift to myself when my doctorate was completed. I am certified to fly anything with only one engine and fewer than 200 hp. I am not instrument rated – I find the ground too interesting not to watch, and I take no chances with weather. But maybe someday, just to be a better visual pilot.

-- I’ll take hiking and mountain biking, please. Whenever possible.

-- I was a Southern Baptist at birth in 1968.

-- I come from a family of Ford owners. When my father died, he still had every car he had ever owned, except the very first one, all Fords and Lincolns. I have bought three Fords myself, and I finally own the right combination of high clearance and drive-train that I want and need. I will not buy another car until the current one dies and falls into at least 2,739 pieces.

-- I played for Gene Tierney’s funeral.

-- My favorite place on earth is Big Bend National Park.

-- I love visiting graves of the rich and famous. A few I’ve visited: Rachmaninoff; Bernstein; Col. Sanders; Bert Lahr; Frank Morgan; Conway Twitty; Presidents Washington, Grant, Wilson, Kennedy, and Johnson; my father.

-- I was confirmed in the Episcopal church in 1990.

-- I have not subscribed to TV service in years. Movie rentals are much cheaper and more interesting.

-- I am a conservative dresser but a liberal everything else. I wear coat and tie to school and to church. I would like to wear a tux when I perform on the home turf at ASU, but the new stage lights are too hot.

-- I was a pet owner for one month. It didn’t work out. The carpet couldn’t take it any more.

-- I love to mow grass. I detest pulling weeds and planting.

-- I have been on Presbyterian payrolls since 1995.

-- I act just like my father and my maternal grandfather. When you meet me, you meet them, God rest their souls.

-- Thanksgiving is my favorite holiday. Christmas Eve is my favorite service. Four days from today!

-- I wish you a blessed Christmas.