by Allen Cheney
© 2019 Allen Cheney
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Published in Nashville, Tennessee, by W Publishing Group, an imprint of Thomas Nelson.
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ISBN 978-0-7852-1760-2 (eBook)
Epub Edition May 2019 9780785217602
Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data
Names: Cheney, Allen, author. | Cantrell, Julie, 1973- author.
Title: Crescendo : the story of a musical genius who forever changed a southern town / Allen Cheney with Julie Cantrell.
Description: Nashville, Tennessee : W Publishing Group, [2019] |
Identifiers: LCCN 2018061568 (print) | LCCN 2019012666 (ebook) | ISBN 9780785217602 (Ebook) | ISBN 9780785217404 (softcover)
Subjects: LCSH: Allen, Fred, 1935—Fiction. | Musicians—Fiction. | Music teachers—Fiction. | GSAFD: Biographical fiction.
Classification: LCC PS3603.H4557 (ebook) | LCC PS3603.H4557 C74 2019 (print) | DDC 813/.6—dc23
LC record available at https://lccn.loc.gov/2018061568
Printed in the United States of America
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Information about External Hyperlinks in this ebook
Please note that endnotes in this ebook may contain hyperlinks to external websites as part of bibliographic citations. These hyperlinks have not been activated by the publisher, who cannot verify the accuracy of these links beyond the date of publication.
This book is dedicated to the beautiful, unique, and
vibrant community of Thomasville, Georgia.
Thank you for embracing the magic of music and
empowering generations of youth to truly shine.
Preface
It has been said that we are lucky if we can find one person who restores our hope when all is lost. One who sees something of worth in us, even when we fail to see it in ourselves, or one who helps push us to be better than we thought we could be. For thousands of students who grew up in the quaint southern town of Thomasville, Georgia, that one person was a music teacher by the name of Fred Allen, a man born poor and hungry in the shadows of a cotton mill.
Fred’s life could easily have become just another tale of broken spirits and the blues, never to be freed from the clutches of poverty. Thankfully that has not been his story at all. In fact, Fred’s legacy is one of show tunes and stardom, resiliency and faith. This is a story of mercy and melody and, above all else, love—plus a miracle or two thrown in for good measure.
Of course, that doesn’t mean his triumph came easy. Nothing worthwhile ever does.
In a world where success is measured by fame and fortune, Fred’s story matters more than ever. He teaches us the value of a meaningful life, a life of purpose. A life well lived. And he leaves each of us asking, How can I best use this time I’ve been given? How can I make it count?
As I share the story of Fred Allen, I write not to tell you who he is but to examine why he is and to learn all we can from this musical prodigy, a man who overcame absolute brokenness to become one of the most influential music mentors ever known.
CRESCENDO
(cre·scen·do / krə-’shen-dō)
noun:
a gradual increase in loudness in a piece of music
adverb and adjective:
increase in loudness or intensity
Contents
Preface
One
Two
Three
Four
Five
Six
Seven
Eight
Nine
Ten
Eleven
Twelve
Thirteen
Fourteen
Fifteen
Sixteen
Seventeen
Eighteen
Nineteen
Twenty
Twenty-One
Twenty-Two
Twenty-Three
Twenty-Four
Twenty-Five
Twenty-Six
Twenty-Seven
Twenty-Eight
Twenty-Nine
Thirty
Thirty-One
Thirty-Two
Thirty-Three
Thirty-Four
Thirty-Five
Thirty-Six
Thirty-Seven
Thirty-Eight
Thirty-Nine
Forty
Epilogue
A Note from Fred Allen
Acknowledgments
Coda
Notes
About the Author
Photos
One
In 1935, as the sweltering summer heat oppressed the downtrodden mill village in LaGrange, Georgia, a young man lay dying. Muffled sobs fell from the corner house on Thornton Street, where curious children eavesdropped outside the open bedroom window. When the shift whistle blew, men and women began to filter out of Dunson Mills. Soaked in sweat and cotton drift, they followed the worn paths, passing neighbors heading in to take their turn at the looms.
Fred Freeman had not been all that different from the others whose lives revolved around the whistle. Poor. Tired. Broken by life’s hardships. Aside from his innate ability to shake a song from a piano or guitar, he had spent his days in one of two places: working the looms or drinking away his frustrations.
The Freeman-Allen home was also the same as every other house in the village, painted white like the cotton that dotted the land in rows. With three bedrooms each, these houses were simple in form but solid in construction, and because they were provided rent-free in exchange for work at the mill, the dwellings lured plenty of workers despite the low wages.
With the Great Depression bearing down across the nation, many houses overflowed with outsiders desperate for work. This is how the Freeman-Allen home came to be filled with generations of extended relatives as well as absolute strangers willing to pay for a corner cot as they chased day-pay jobs from town to town.
With some Cherokee blood and little education, Fred Freeman’s life had already been both harsh and hurtful despite being barely two brief decades in measure. But now the young man gasped his final breaths in that back bedroom of his family’s crowded home. And as the aunts and uncles circled round him, there was nothing anyone could do but let him go.
Taken too soon by the Lord. That’s what his loved ones said as they pulled the sheet over his pallid face and prayed for him to find peace in the hereafter. They weren’t a churchgoing bunch, but they knew the decent thing to do was to pray in times such as these.
As the spirit was leaving Fred Freeman, his sister, Velma Freeman Allen, cried out. Hers was a howl not only of grief but also of surprise as a sudden gush of water fell from her womb. Just as her mother, Peg Freeman, had warned, the stress of her brother’s death seemed to have induced an early labor. In the swirling chaos, Velma moved away from her brother’s deathbed a
nd into her own tiny bedroom, preparing her body to embrace the blessing of birth. Clenching her fists through contractions, she called out, “Go! Fetch Mayhayley!”
Mayhayley Lancaster was not only a friend to Peg Freeman, she was also a teacher, an activist, and, perhaps most interestingly, an oracle whose gifts were revered both far and wide, even by those most skeptical. While well respected in her Christian church, she was known to run the numbers and tell fortunes, cast spells and speak with spirits. But to women like Velma, who labored through home births in the south Georgia summer, Mayhayley was known above all else as a midwife. A life-giver. A godsend.
By the time Mayhayley arrived, Velma was writhing in pain, shrieking and sweating as female relatives scrambled to comfort her. “This labor ain’t nothing like my first!” Velma screamed, a statement Mayhayley validated by announcing, “The baby is stuck!”
Quite experienced in matters of birth, the midwife solicited the women to help calm the mother, but despite steady reassurances, Velma seemed unable to bear the searing contractions, struggling to keep her breathing steady between waves of nausea and escalating spikes of pain.
Also, there was blood. Too much blood.
Mere hours after the death of Velma’s brother, two more lives were now in peril as her body quaked and a baby boy was born blue. While Mayhayley’s primary focus was on saving Velma, the wizened oracle took one look at the chalky shroud across the newborn’s head and smiled. “A caulbearer,” she said, proudly lifting the child into the air to examine the thin, milky membrane that draped his face.
Velma cried from the bed, eager to see her son, but the many women blocked her view, warning he had been born “behind the veil” and would likely not make it through the night.
“Cursed!” hissed a cousin, pushing the child away.
“Nonsense,” Mayhayley argued. With tender hands she pulled the film from the baby’s face and willed his color to change from a sickly gray to healthy pink. Then, with her one good eye, she gave him a close examination. “You’re a special one, aren’t you?” She turned her missing eye toward the door, tilting the marble-filled socket away for a better view. “Yes, yes. I can already see.”
Mayhayley brought the baby to the bedside. “You’ve got one more reason to be strong now, Velma. This boy needs his mother.”
Too frail to hold her son, Velma was growing weaker by the minute, even as the women cooled her with damp cloths and worked to stop the bleeding. With his mother teetering between life and death, the crying baby was set aside while the midwife’s attention went to saving Velma.
Hours passed between the prayers. Slowly, the health of both mother and son began to improve, and before the stroke of midnight, Mayhayley was finally able to press the infant to his mother’s breast. “He’s not like other children,” the soothsayer warned. “He’s been touched.”
Velma’s eyes grew wide as she caressed her son’s soft skin. She had long heard talk of caulbearers born with psychic powers, special souls connected to both the living and the dead. She stared at her infant child with a fear-filled love. Emotions flowed as the realization of all that had happened in the last twenty-four hours finally began to sink in. The sting of her brother’s death. The dangerous and painful delivery. And now this child, this beautiful boy born cloaked in mystery.
The baby’s eyes, blue as cobalt, already seemed to carry a sensitivity that Velma had only seen in one other man. “He’s got my brother’s eyes,” she said, her voice hoarse from the battlefield of birth. “We should name him Fred. In his honor.”
“He’s got more than just his eyes,” Mayhayley replied with a knowing nod.
Velma was too exhausted to ask for explanation. Instead, she cradled her son against her chest and fell into a deep sleep, the weight of grief still heavy upon her.
Two
After surviving such a traumatic entry into this world, the baby carried his late uncle’s name and soon became known to all as Fred Allen. Though his years had been short, Uncle Fred Freeman had developed quite a reputation for his musical talents, playing several instruments even though he had never taken a single lesson. So when the younger Fred showed an interest in song, the family wasn’t surprised to see him follow in the footsteps of his namesake.
Despite their poverty, the Allens had acquired an old upright piano, and while it couldn’t hold much of a tune, Velma could hammer out a few familiar hymns and folk songs. In his earliest days, Fred would sit in Velma’s lap and toy with the keys as she played, her fingers bearing calluses from working double shifts in the weaving room.
Like many toddlers, Fred began tapping a few simple rhythms on the ivories, but his talents quickly proved to be anything but typical. By the tender age of three he was already performing entire songs on the piano by heart. Having been warned at her son’s birth that he had been “touched,” Velma was alarmed by this unusual behavior—so much so that she tried to keep Fred’s talents a secret, even from her husband, Grady, a hard worker known to numb his many frustrations by making it to the bottom of a bottle.
Because Fred not only shared his uncle’s talents but also his blue eyes and strong jawline, Velma feared that Mayhayley may have been correct in her claims: “Sometimes, when a child is born so near in time and place to another person’s death, the spirits can intersect. Seems to me,” the midwife had warned, “your son is carrying his uncle’s spirit. An old soul. Sent back here to do some very important work.”
Mayhayley’s psychic abilities were accepted by nearly everyone across both Troup and Coweta Counties, including the community’s most devout churchgoers who were known to consult the soothsayer. She was well liked, a woman of “good Christian standing.” Even the sheriff was not above seeking her guidance on difficult cases. So Velma—already a superstitious soul—had taken Mayhayley’s warning to heart and was determined to protect her son from any curse that might have cut her brother’s life too short.
Despite wanting to guard Fred from danger, rotating shifts often kept Velma and Grady working more than sixteen hours each day. Even when they were home, they were usually far too exhausted to interact with their young son. So the piano became Fred’s closest companion, and while other children tuned their ears to the sounds of bedtime stories and playground chants, music became Fred’s native tongue.
One day Fred’s little three-year-old legs dangled from the piano bench as he began to tap the keys. When the insurance collector made his way to their screen door seeking payment, the man was stunned to find such a young child playing “The Old Rugged Cross” without any flaws, not a note missed by the pint-size preschooler.
“How’d he do that?” The man stepped inside uninvited, his eyes wide as the screen door slammed behind him.
All color drained from Velma’s face, and she protectively pulled her son away from the ivories. Young Fred stretched for the keys again, despite his mother’s resistance. She nudged him toward the porch, trying to shoo the collector back outside too.
But the man wanted more. Beads of sweat pearled atop his brow as the heat of summer beat down on the family’s humble home. He bent low toward Fred, stared at the boy’s small hands, then looked him in the eye. “Think you can you play ‘Amazing Grace’?” The collector began to hum the familiar tune.
Fred barely reached to his mother’s waist. He lifted his face to her and smiled.
“Go on outside now, Fred.” Velma’s voice was tight, and her words came fast, so he did as he was told.
The relentless collector moved toward the piano and held out a shiny nickel, no small sum during those times. “I want to hear him play ‘Amazing Grace.’”
Outside, the shift whistle blew. Velma took a long look at that nickel. Then she looked to the keys. Looked out to her young son now chasing cotton fly as it drifted like snow through the village. “I’ll play it for you.” She hit the opening notes, letting her own meek voice carry the words through the small space.
The man pulled another nickel from his pocket whi
le Fred’s mother crooned. Then he placed both coins atop the piano, creating an echo through the cavernous chamber of strings.
Velma stopped singing, but her fingers kept striking the chords, softer now, slower.
“It’s real money, ma’am. Real money.” He eyed the family’s shabby quarters, the broken windowpane, the two missing piano keys. Outside, a gang of mill children crowded the tiny yards. Most had already spent the morning picking cotton or cleaning looms, their chatter a constant reminder of hungry mouths to feed.
The work-weary woman stilled her hands. Then she turned back toward the door and called, “Fred?”
The man stood eager at the old upright. His mind seemed to be spinning while the young boy clambered barefoot back into the house. Velma tapped her lap, and Fred climbed up to greet the keys again.
“He wants to hear you play ‘Amazin’ Grace.’” This time, Velma’s voice was steady, without emotion. She hit the first few notes. Then Fred moved his fingers under hers, and she yielded the lead to her son.
Fred didn’t have to look at his hands. He played the song by ear while Velma kept her focus on the insurance collector, his brows lifting, his grin spreading wide. When Fred finished, the man jingled more coins in his pocket, and Velma tensed, grinding her teeth. The collector leaned closer. “‘By and By.’ You know that one?”
Velma’s hands began to shake, but she paired middle C with F and played the first verse all the way through. Then Fred took over just in time for the second. By the time he circled back around to strike middle C and F again, one of the few chords his tiny fingers could reach, the collector was nearly moved to tears, a reaction that surprised both mother and son.
“That one gets me every time. Every time.” The man had a way of repeating himself, a trick that likely came in useful when demanding payments from his long-suffering clientele. “Your boy has a gift. You know that, ma’am? A real gift.”
Velma stood and smoothed her cotton housedress, its hemline worn and frayed. She led the collector to the door, hoping he had forgotten the original purpose of his visit, and even more so that he would soon forget her son’s “gift.”