Sometimes events that stick out strongly in our memory are those that contain that bittersweet mixture of the good with the bad, the happy tinged with the sad. The roller-coaster emotions of certain times make them unforgettable. New Year’s Eve 1971 is one such time. It was a day that turned out to be life-defining for the then 13-year-old me.
Caroline Bay in Timaru was where my friend Trevor Coleman and I made our debut public performance as a duo in the 1971 summer carnival talent quest. Alec and Melba Coleman — Trevor’s parents — had driven us up there for a summer break, along with Trevor’s sister Shelley. It turned out to be a successful week: Shelley and Melba cleaned up the mother and daughter beauty contest; and Melba and Trevor then won the mother and son event. (They were a handsome family those Colemans, Trevor had won the title of Mr Macandrew Intermediate earlier that year resulting in giggling interest from several young girls. Trevor granted them each long kisses from our St Clair garage! I was never so lucky.)
Back to the Caroline Bay sound shell. As a nervous 12 and 13 year-old, respectively, Trevor and I performed on trumpet and clarinet. That first performance led to a second; we were selected for the finals and were rewarded with a splendid feed of fish and chips. For our finals appearance, Melba outfitted us in matching shirts, but I let the side down by forgetting to take off my old jumper for the performance, much to Melba’s dismay. However, we played well and to our delight we were placed second overall. Looking back, this early positive experience was seminal: it launched Trevor and I on our pathway to becoming dedicated musicians.
The thrill of performance was still with us when we went to a New Year’s Eve barbecue on a local farm straight after the finals. Here I discovered for the first time the way life balances yin and yang, elation with deflation.
That night was significant: it was the first time I found that I could not see what others saw in the dark. I tripped over a sandpit, walked into a fence post and lost my bearings. These were the first signs of my deteriorating eyesight. I remember emotions of confusion and anger following so soon after the highs of the afternoon. And yet I now recall all this with fondness and count that New Year’s Eve as one of my best days. That day I was fortunate to discover essential parts of who I am. My music and my visual impairment are part of what defines me, as do my friendships.
Today I drink whisky with Trevor and other friends, many of whom I have known since boyhood and through music. They have been there to help me negotiate life’s sandpits and fence posts in the dark.
- Peter Adams is an associate professor at the University of Otago, a composer and conductor.
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