Speaking Volumes

     Out of the corner of my eye, I see a full-figured elderly matron making her way up the center aisle, every step an exertion assisted by her cane. I'm half-curious where she's going, but force my eyes back to the organ's music rack. I'm in the middle of the Postlude at the end of the worship service. I need to pay attention to what my hands and feet are doing. (I once lost my focus when playing a familiar hymn – well, that's another story.)

     The Postlude is when organists literally pull out all the stops. Parishioners expect to hear their marvelous organ played by their marvelous organist as well as get their money's worth. Very few people play the organ, yet many donate to its maintenance and periodic improvements.  (Got a loose $100,000? )

     The matron is approaching the chancel stairs, close enough so I can see her jowled face, painted with dabs of rouge and lipstick. Her determined trudge seems to have one destination – me.  (Here's a similar Anglican edifice with a long aisle like my church.  Click for an idea of the atmosphere and acoustics.)

     As my fingers stretch and hold the final chord, my peripheral vision confirms that the matron is near. In fact, she's climbing the steps. Now she's so close I can hear her labored breathing. My heart pounds. She halts at the top of the marble stairs, faces me, and opens her mouth. "My dear, the organ is too loud."

     What did I respond? I hope my remarks were charitable, appreciative, and polite. Only thirty years old and new to this church job – I was too young to see any humor in the situation. And too recent to have a complete grasp of the building's acoustics or how sound acted in different areas of the nave. Was she right? When I hit the crescendo pedal to reach the climax of a toccata, were people covering their ears?

*     *     *

    The level of sound – the volume – is such an individual matter. The physics of sound  is daunting for most of us. Even a power point designed for youngsters is complicated. But here's a clue from that video under "The Facts of Sound". It reads: "Our ears take in sound waves and turn them into signals that go to our brains." That's it! Our brains store our ideas, so-to-speak, about the characteristics of sound.

     So my brain gives me varying messages. Take my neighbor's party music, for example. If I'm trying to sleep next door, I feel irritated. But if I'm dancing up a storm at that party, I enjoy the booming bass notes. Or if I'm going to the Crawfish Festival on the St. Petersburg waterfront with my knock-out date, I hardly hear the blaring decibels. But if I'm the proud owner of a pricey nearby condo, I'm reaching for ear plugs.

     What if I'm an elderly matron who's tithed to my church for decades - the same church which my mother endowed in her estate? What if I feel ignored by the young rector who doesn't speak to me by name? You bet I've got an opinion – and I'm going to deliver it to that kid organist.

* * *

     At the next staff meeting, I related the post-Postlude comment.
     "Oh, I think you're doing a great job," the rector said, "Good leadership on the hymns."
     "I hear only good comments," said the religious education director who is stuck with kids off in the dank basement during the 11 AM service.
     "You can't please everyone," said the janitor, who knows a thing or two about that subject.
    
     Even if I couldn't please everyone, I did assign myself a do-it-yourself class in pipe organ design. I studied the placement of the pipe chambers (rooms of pipes hung around the building) in the sanctuary - the Swell, Positive, Great and Antiphonal sets of pipes. I enlisted a volunteer to sit at the organ console and hold down chords using different combinations of pipes while I walked around, listening.

     In a sanctuary with empty pews, sound reverberates brightly. So I could only approximate the Sunday morning sound when pews full of human bodies soak up a portion of the overtones. In the end, I did not change my registrations.  I left those combinations of pipe sounds exactly as I'd previously set them up to my satisfaction - so I could transition from very soft to very loud by just hitting the different knobs or tabs as I rendered the music.

                                                                            *     *     *

     Some time later, perhaps a month, I'm nearing the end of Buxtehude's "Gelobet seist du, Jesu Christ" as worshippers file out of the sanctuary. Out of the corner of my eye, I see a familiar figure. Oh, no! The same woman! I continue playing, concentrating on making my fingers and feet strike the correct notes.

     As I reach the final cadence and toggle the organ switch to Off, I swivel on the bench toward my visitor. Hints of a smile poke through her uplifted jowls. I relax slightly as I greet her.
     Leaning on her cane and twisting her neck in my direction, she says, "My dear, I want you to know -  there's been a great improvement."

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     Sometimes, words speak louder than organs.  It's Grand Prix race week in St. Petersburg.  Time for earplugs!  Donna