Forty Years Have Passed: Meeting Richard for the First Time
Late August of 1974. Today the Ohio River Valley is hot, stifling, breathless. On the Cincinnati Bible College campus, a hillside stand of maples filter the sun’s glare. Cicadas shriek and gibber in chorus. My parents have just left me and my worldly goods on campus. It seems a little like being left at summer camp, but I have a sinking feeling I’ll have little in common with these students. I’ve found a safe place for my four-stringed banjo, my handmade clothes, my mug, toiletries, books and art materials. I doubt if anyone else on campus has a copy of Siddhartha, Steppenwolf, or anything by Hesse in their personal library. I’m beginning to draw battle lines in my mind.
Still sticky from travel, now trapped in the stuffy top floor of the unair-conditioned dorm, I open the windows wide. The humidity makes me wonder if I’m breathing or swimming. Not reprieve enough. I venture back outside for a hope of a breeze, a breath, and a look at my surroundings. A young man walks up the driveway. His complexion is swarthy, his facial features small and fine. His hair is straight and black, worn in a slightly overgrown bowl cut. His face is strangely symmetrical and appealing. His shoulders and biceps are thin, as undeveloped as an adolescent’s. I study his face, fascinated to see if I can guess his country of origin. Either Turkish or Moroccan, I assume, some version of humanity that mingles both French and Mediterranean elements. I am startled when I notice that he’s studying me as intently as I’m studying him.
He comes nearer, his dark eyes still locked on mine.
“I like your dress.”
The accent is clearly American, so the question of his heritage remains unanswered. I am dressed oddly for any Midwestern location, particularly that campus. I like to design my own homemade clothes. For this campus with its rigid dress code, I’ve chosen long skirts with blouses inspired by the fashion of centuries past. As expected, my clothes mark me as a free spirit on a campus full of strict conformists.
“Thanks,” I reply, cautiously. I don’t know what this guy wants.
Next he asks, “Do you like music?”
“Sure.”
“What do you like best?”
I throw a challenge his way. “Bach,” I answer. My brother is a pipe organist, and I figure I know Bach’s work well enough to evaluate whether it’s being played properly or not.
He rises to the challenge. “If I play you some Bach, will you listen to some stuff I wrote?”
Things are looking up. I’ve only been on campus for a few minutes, and as an alternative to the ear-shattering cicada drone, I am being offered live entertainment by someone who is capable of writing music.
I attempt to hide my excitement. “Alright.”
We head for cooler temperatures in the basement of my dorm, Alumni Hall. He has been there less than 24 hours, and already Richard Mullins knows the location of every piano on campus.
His Bach is mechanically competent, certainly beyond my ability to critique. Richard has been studying classical piano since elementary school. He needs no sheet music; he knows any piece I ask him to play by heart. Now, he moves easily into his own compositions; his ranging arpeggios and broken chords remind me of water sounds. His lyrics are unmistakably poetic. When I allow myself to tune my emotions to his songs, I find myself spilling into tears.
* * * * * *
Excerpt, Singing from Silence
Still sticky from travel, now trapped in the stuffy top floor of the unair-conditioned dorm, I open the windows wide. The humidity makes me wonder if I’m breathing or swimming. Not reprieve enough. I venture back outside for a hope of a breeze, a breath, and a look at my surroundings. A young man walks up the driveway. His complexion is swarthy, his facial features small and fine. His hair is straight and black, worn in a slightly overgrown bowl cut. His face is strangely symmetrical and appealing. His shoulders and biceps are thin, as undeveloped as an adolescent’s. I study his face, fascinated to see if I can guess his country of origin. Either Turkish or Moroccan, I assume, some version of humanity that mingles both French and Mediterranean elements. I am startled when I notice that he’s studying me as intently as I’m studying him.
He comes nearer, his dark eyes still locked on mine.
“I like your dress.”
The accent is clearly American, so the question of his heritage remains unanswered. I am dressed oddly for any Midwestern location, particularly that campus. I like to design my own homemade clothes. For this campus with its rigid dress code, I’ve chosen long skirts with blouses inspired by the fashion of centuries past. As expected, my clothes mark me as a free spirit on a campus full of strict conformists.
“Thanks,” I reply, cautiously. I don’t know what this guy wants.
Next he asks, “Do you like music?”
“Sure.”
“What do you like best?”
I throw a challenge his way. “Bach,” I answer. My brother is a pipe organist, and I figure I know Bach’s work well enough to evaluate whether it’s being played properly or not.
He rises to the challenge. “If I play you some Bach, will you listen to some stuff I wrote?”
Things are looking up. I’ve only been on campus for a few minutes, and as an alternative to the ear-shattering cicada drone, I am being offered live entertainment by someone who is capable of writing music.
I attempt to hide my excitement. “Alright.”
We head for cooler temperatures in the basement of my dorm, Alumni Hall. He has been there less than 24 hours, and already Richard Mullins knows the location of every piano on campus.
His Bach is mechanically competent, certainly beyond my ability to critique. Richard has been studying classical piano since elementary school. He needs no sheet music; he knows any piece I ask him to play by heart. Now, he moves easily into his own compositions; his ranging arpeggios and broken chords remind me of water sounds. His lyrics are unmistakably poetic. When I allow myself to tune my emotions to his songs, I find myself spilling into tears.
* * * * * *
Excerpt, Singing from Silence