The meeting house

The house was warm and cozy, sort of like a snow day with the heat on full-blast. Grandma’s house was so welcoming, as if it were a meetinghouse for the family; the smell of freshly baked cookies, hugs and kisses, and not forgetting the toys, too. Upon visiting, I could feel the warmness and comfort and acceptance my family gave off. Oh, how I always looked forward to Sundays at Grandma’s.
Grandma’s house was an escape; a trip down 3rd Street, one of the last brick roads that remain intact in Fort Wayne. Her house was one of those houses downtown without a garage—but instead, rather, an alley-way. In the front of the house Evergreens dominated the porch with their bristles littering the rustic swing of the porch. Inside of the house flaunted antique dressers, an old record player the size of Texas, and a weathered davenport—as Grandma used to call it.

Grandma Josephine—shortened to Grandma Jo—was one of my favorite grandparents; she was caring and wasn’t the stereotypical mean elder seen in the movies. Always wearing her flowered blouses, reading her TV Guide magazine and baking, she brought our family together for one day of the week to spend time with each other and catch-up in between our busy lives. Every weekend I found myself playing with my two cousins, whether it was house, building a fort, or running around outside tagging each other. Our mothers worried, crying, “Don’t you go anywhere near that street you three, you’ll get killed!” We always listened.

Our family was pretty big; Jo had three sons and three daughters, and plenty of grandchildren to go around. I never got the chance to meet my grandfather, as he passed away about two months before I was born. My grandfather had built the house from the bottom up. He was a pretty clever man, interested in radios and trains—he made a living working for General Electric and invented new technologies for our constantly innovating world.

Grandma Jo’s house seemed really magical. My cousins and I would peek into drawers and rooms we thought looked mysterious, only to be amazed at what we found. What we found was treasure to us; whether it be in picture form or army gear from my grandfather serving in World War II. Oh, how we believed we were pirates.

My favorite part of the house was the basement. Filled with all kinds of memories and antiques, it always kept me amazed. My grandfather showed an interest in trains and had a large train track set up in the basement of the house with tons of train cars and small model homes—even a model McDonald’s. Whenever I went over to Jo’s, I would ask Uncle Jeff to help me set up the trains. This was probably one of my favorite childhood memories, because I liked to pretend I was the conductor when moving the many controls.

I am not sure why, but Grandparents seem to have the most entertaining stories; ranging from my crazy aunts and uncles or my mother’s childhood. She told me about how my mother’s Aunt Sammy gave haircuts to all of my aunts and uncles. The best part was finding an old picture of my mother in a spare bedroom upstairs from when she was in the fifth grade; she looked almost exactly like me as a child—buzz cut and all. Oh, how I felt bad for my mother and the dreadful Aunt Sammy haircuts.

Not even a block away stood Most Precious Blood Catholic School, the elementary school my mother, aunts, and uncles all attended. In the summer we played on the playground for hours and hours and went to the school’s carnival. With all types of fun things to do, my cousins and I would spend hours winning prizes, teddy bears, and even catching a few handfuls of cotton candy. At the end of the night, my two closest cousins and I would spend the night at Grandma’s house; she would make us bacon and eggs in the morning to fill our bellies. And that was why I loved Grandma’s house.

I am not an English major, despite popular belief.

I am starting my book this fall. I finally found a title for it. It only took me four years. Four. I can start writing my letters.

A courageously determined pursuit to interview Ben Folds

Winston Churchill has said, “Success is not final, failure is not fatal: it is the courage to continue that counts.”

To achieve certain goals in life, determination and courage are some of the biggest factors to doing so. Sure, failure is prone to happening at multiple times in anyone’s lifetime, but does that mean all hope is to be given up and no willpower should be invested in our wants or biggest dreams? I believe not.

Ever since I started listening to music at an early age I had the dream of being a rock star. It did not occur to me until I got my first guitar in middle school that I did not possess the ability of keeping a beat or singing while playing guitar, let alone the skill to play anything besides a simple Blink-182 riff—however, that did not discourage me from a little recreational guitar playing.

Since being a rock star is not the easiest thing to achieve, I decided to settle for meeting a popular musician—specifically, one that I am fond of. I decided that this was a great time to execute that plan since I write for the newspaper—so why not interview a musician? I found my musician: Ben Folds. Ben was playing at the Embassy Theatre here in Fort Wayne. I knew from the start that this would not be an easy task.

In it for the long haul, I did some research, not knowing how to successfully attain this interview. I tried to find any contact information to no avail. I started the journey at Sony BMG Music Entertainment, the parent company of Epic Records. I was unsure which department I had to talk to, so I began my journey of leaving voicemails on corporate inboxes and sending emails to anyone who seemed legit enough to get me my interview.
A half an hour after leaving about four or five voicemails, I got a call from an area code in New York—I was so nervous I almost missed the call on purpose so I would only have to listen to the voicemail. Picking up the phone, I was greeted by a publicist for Sony BMG and given the phone number to an Epic Records publicist located in Los Angeles, California, to which I responded with, “Awesome!”

I called the number and once again got a voicemail. The next day I was greeted from a phone call from Epic Records and was directed to send her an e-mail with contact information and a brief explanation for the publication I am involved with. E-mail sent. Fastest response I have ever given—I was so excited.
Two weeks went by and I didn’t hear a thing. I began to lose interest in this interview, and then right as my hopes were fading, I got an e-mail with contact information. Finally, after two weeks, more progress! Again, I sent a quick response to my contact at Big Hassle Publicity. No e-mail. Another two weeks went by.

Discouragement got in the way of my determination. I almost gave up, until I got tired of being pushed away from what would be one of the biggest interviews of my life. I found the company’s phone number and began making my calls. Finally after numerous attempts, I was directed to a publicist named Ken. He was a nice guy, but quickly I found he was not the man I needed to talk to. He directed me to Nicole, who would be able to get me exactly what I needed—FINALLY! She accomplished more in my quest to get this interview than anyone else I had talked to.

It was two days before the concert and I still had not heard a final answer on if I had the interview or not. I went around asking everyone I knew, “What would you ask if you met one of your favorite musicians?” I got a lot of irrelevant interview questions, such as “Will you have my babies?”, but it made me realize the questions I wanted to ask: everything that nobody else would think to ask him. I did not want the cookie-cutter interview.

The day before and I had still heard no response. I made four calls that day. Two out of the four times, she was “not at her desk”, which I believe was staged so she did not have to talk to me yet again.

I never got a call back—instead, an email. I knew would not be good. “I appreciate your patience with me on this,” was the first line and my heart dropped, “but it doesn’t look like we’re going to be able to schedule this for tomorrow...with travel and other commitments, we couldn’t make it work with Ben’s schedule.”
My heart sank. I did not let it get to me. I failed; however, I had gotten further than most people have. I took a dream and I tried to turn it into an epic interview that would be the biggest interview of my life. But hey, now I’ve got connections—his tour publicist hooked me up with two tickets to the show, of which was one of the best Ben Folds shows I have been to (and free!). Sure, he wasn’t full band, but he blew the Embassy away with the help of the Fort Wayne Philharmonic.

What happens now? I suppose, for now, waiting until the next time Ben comes around Fort Wayne. As long as you have a dream and the determination to achieve a goal, most people will take the time to listen to what you have to say. For me, this isn’t a failure—it is a success. Although I did not actually get to interview him, I had the trip of a lifetime talking to big-shot publicists who could get me exactly what I needed. Now the only thing left is a bunch of unanswered questions which trouble my mind and curiosity.