I think there are some people that you just expect to live forever. Parents, for example. They’ve always been there. It doesn’t seem right that some day they won’t be. And yet, that’s the natural course of things. People live, and then they move on. Cross the bridge to whatever lies beyond.
For as long as I’ve known about Providence College, Henry Schellenberg was the conductor of the College Singers. It seemed like he always would be. He never really appeared to age (I always thought of him as in his 40s, from the day I met him until today when I realized that was not possible), and his capability of drawing the best out of his students never waned.
I don't recall the first time I met Henry. Even my recollection of my College Singers audition is very vague. Somehow I was given the privilege of being one of two accompanists during my years with the choir. I know that I made Henry nervous on more than one occasion. I'm a terrible procrastinator, and I never practiced my music the way I should have (which I regret now, of course). We were approaching "performance season" and I still didn't have one of my pieces nailed down. Henry approached me and asked if perhaps it was too much for me to work on right now and if maybe Val should play it instead. I told him that it would be ready by the time we performed. He responded with a sigh, "I know, but sometimes it would be nice if it was ready a bit sooner." I don't think I ever worked on a piece as much as I did that one after that.
At the end of my first year, the choir went on tour to Great Britain, as they did every three years. It was clear that Henry was well-respected everywhere we went. It was on that tour that we commonly heard Henry referred to as "Hank," mostly by some of the tenor section. The nickname spread, but no one ever said it to his face. We all loved him, and to call him that would seem almost wrong. But we loved to jest. After one particular concert, we had just loaded the bus, and Henry was not on yet. Cory Alstad stood at the front, playing Henry. "Well, that was, well, it was pretty good," he began, copying Henry's mild way of speaking to us, often almost stammering as he tried to convey his thoughts about how we had done. "But the tenors, well, the tenors, well, let's just say that you guys need to do, well you need a little more work." It was classic Henry - trying to tell us what went wrong without hurting anyone's feelings (though there were times in rehearsal when he would come right out and tell us that was terrible, which never hurt anyone's feelings, because Henry was the gentlest man I knew). The best part of the whole scenario, though, was when Henry walked up behind Cory during his little spiel. After realizing he was there, Cory turned bright red and headed to his seat, while Henry grabbed the bus mic and said with a little smirk, "That was, that was well done, Cory. Good job." Always a good sport.
While I was at Providence, Henry was working on his doctorate. I don't remember much about what he said about the process, but I remember the impression that it was a great deal of work (as we all know it is). I remember when he got it, how proud he was, yet how humble. How proud we were of this accomplishment. How good it felt to be able to call him "Dr. Schellenberg," a name that showed the respect that we all had for him. So much more appropriate than "Hank."
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| Doing what he did best |
Last August I had the opportunity to take part in an evening of celebration of Henry's life. He knew at that point that his cancer could not be fully treated, and it was decided that an informal evening of singing and sharing would take place to give honour to this man. What an evening it was! People came out en masse to sing under him one last time, and just as many came to listen. We were a motley crew - some of us had gone on to great musical endeavours, while others had all but abandoned that part of our lives - much like the group that he had to work with every year at Prov. I quickly realized how much I had lost over the years, but still enjoyed every minute of that evening. Seeing Henry do what he did best was such an experience. Once again, he brought the best out of all of us, and he basked in the experience. We even got to hear him sing that evening, as he performed the solo for one of the pieces. It was the last time I would see him.
Years ago, I started arranging a couple of songs for choir, one of which was "For the Beauty of the Earth." Finishing it is on my list of things to do while on maternity leave. I always dreamt that one day, I would hear it performed, even if only in practice, by the College Singers under the direction of Henry Schellenberg. When I read the last post written by his wife, Jocelyne, that he was indeed in his last days, it finally hit home that this dream would not come to fruition. I had taken too long. Somehow I thought that Henry should be with us forever, that five, ten, twenty years would not matter. He would still be at the helm of the Singers, bringing forth beautiful music out of another motley crew. My chance to hear his analysis of my attempt at arranging, one that would likely be full of semi-stammers as he tried not to hurt my feelings while discussing my inadequacies, and which would bring a smile to my face as I remembered so many other similar occasions, has been lost. I still plan to finish it. I still hope to hear it, even if only in practice, preferably by the College Singers. I'll have to imagine his response. It will still make me smile.
But today we feel the loss. The loss of an incredibly gentle, humble and great man. A man who chose to see the best in each person. One who gave more chances than some of us deserved. Our loss is heaven's gain. Until we meet again...
