1962
Music
This Could be the Start of Something Big
Battle Hymn
I’m an Old Cowhand
Old Devil Moon
Land of Sky Blue Water
Little Red Wing
Wagon Wheels
Cool Water
When Johnny Comes Marching Home
Awards & Recognitions
Performed at Seattle World’s Fair
Washington State VFW Champions
Corps Members
Drum Majors: Jim Wade & Pete Emmons
Tom Anderson, Bill Bailey, Jim Booth, Kathy Davis, John Belz, Jim Booth, Ted Booth, Alan Bowker, Paul Boyer, Dave Brower, Charlene Butcher, Lyndy Butcher, Rutheda Lofink, Robert Campos, Linda Carlen, Vicki Carlen, Terry Carr, Lynn Coolbaugh, Diana Davis, Ken Davis, Larry Durrett, Dennis Dusel, Pete Emmons, Lynnette Evans, Linda Mokler, Betty Galoosha, Bill Garner, Janet Ferrell, Blaine Gillingham, Walt Heath, Robert E. Hedicke, Jim Herdt, Richard Hinerman, Bob Holland, Bernice Hollingsworth, Vicki Jensen, Cathy Jones, Larry Kimball, Nick Krause, Jeanette Putnam, John Marshall, Jack McClellan, Sandy Maxon, James McDaniel, Barry Miller, Pam Miller, Ron Mokler, Rhonda Murray, Jody Murray, John Neely, Lucy Parsons, Johnny Patterson, Kenneth Perales, Steve Pollack, Gary Priess, Beverly Pulanco, Steve Roshek, Ken Sanford, Mary Schnieder, John Shea, Mary Shea, Gary Shockey, Ruth Ann Smith, Mary Sparks, Karl Swenson, Vern White, Donna Wilson, Ray Wilson
A Personal Remembrance
by Walt Heath
1962 was a memorable year for me as a Trooper. It was my first marching season with the Corps at a time when it was just beginning to blossom at the competition level. Ken Davis, lead baritone player, had attempted once to recruit me back in 1959, only the Troopers’ second full year of existence. We were both trombone players in Miss Becker’s East Junior High School band. He was a very talented 9th grader, and a mentor for a lowly little 7th grader such as myself. But the first go around didn’t take. I was totally unimpressed with the crude, somewhat beat-up baritone bugle I was handed to audition on for instructor Swede Olson - one piston and a funky little slide apparatus - and there was something about the badly lit, barren rehearsal hall that gave me the creeps. It was located downtown on the upper floor of the American Legion Hall (on Beech Street, I think). The acoustics alone were unnerving. The requisite level of musicianship also seemed to me, even at 12 years old, to be beneath my dignity.
Fast forward to the summer of 1961. My best buddy, trumpet player Bob Holland, and I had joined the summer marching band program run by Blaine Coolbaugh, the instrumental music teacher at Natrona County High School. This group traveled around the state, playing in many of the small-town parades (is there any other kind in Wonderful Wyoming?). It was good summertime fun for a couple of fourteen-year-olds who shared music as one of several common interests. But something even more interesting occurred. We had just completed our march at one of the parade sites - I believe it was Lander. The occasion was noteworthy likewise in my memory bank of most embarrassing musical moments, because at one point my trombone slide had sailed an impressive distance onto the asphalt in front of me as I was trying to reach a note in 7th position. I retrieved it as nonchalantly and coolly as possible while I marched past, even though it’s difficult to be unobtrusive when you’re in the front row. Suddenly we were struck dumb by one of the musical groups following us in the parade line. Who were these guys? The music was brilliant and powerful - “Ghost Riders in the Sky.” The drumming was precise and hypnotic. The marching was extraordinary. The uniforms alone got our attention. Among other things, Bob and I had become interested in the Civil War, since the centennial observance of that momentous event had begun that year. These smart, cavalry-style uniforms with the crossed saber emblems on the hats made the think-up-your-own-cowboy-outfits we were wearing look positively hokey. Bob decided on the spot he had to get in on this. I didn’t lag far behind.
That fall we signed up and were placed in the newly formed “B” Corps. We marched with this unit in one parade in Casper (probably Labor Day). Its uniform consisted of a light tan jean jacket with “Troopers Drum and Bugle Corps” emblazoned on the back and matching trousers. No head covering that I can remember. No scarf. No stripes. But we didn’t care. We would suffer any embarrassment to get into that other uniform. And within a month we were both promoted to the “A” Corps. Now the work, and the fun, really began. Two rehearsals every week throughout the winter - a music rehearsal on Wednesday evenings at the NCHS band room, a marching rehearsal Sunday afternoons at the old National Guard Armory on Wolcott Street. A guest instructor from the Cavaliers named Keith (I can’t recall his last name) visited to help improve the M & M and teach us the glide step, for which the Corps would become famous as it was perfected over the next few years. When the weather began to improve we started putting the show together outside, usually at NCHS stadium or East Junior High.
Before we knew it the 1962 performance season had arrived. The travel schedule ahead of us was impressive and exciting. For an appetizer we took a little weekend jaunt down to Manitou Springs, Colorado, for the Colorado State Legion contest. Such as it was. The only other corps there that I remember was the Blue Knights of Denver, who placed second. The small number of competing corps didn’t matter though. The excitement of your very first competition show is the same for everyone, no matter the circumstances.
After returning to Casper for a few more rehearsals, we headed out on our first major road tour, a trip to the Northwest that started with the Portland Rose Parade. Some random recollections of the outbound journey: that first overwhelming dose of exhaust fumes as the buses are warming up and the final loading is going on - an olfactory memory that stirs me to this day when I’m stuck behind some charter on the San Diego Freeway; the exhilaration and sense of adventure that comes from simply being on the road; Mr. Jones counseling us in Boise, Idaho about the value of eating properly as he promptly orders up his all-time favorite breakfast - cherry pie a la mode; the fabulous salmon barbecue we are feted with by the citizens of Pendleton, Oregon after we have played for our supper; someone’s radio blaring Beach Boys and Jan and Dean and “Soldier Boy” and “Mr. Postman” on the bus while I (from a safe distance of course) indulge my teenage crushes on Jeanette Putnam, a cute little rifle in the guard and daughter of marching instructor Major Jake Putnam, and Pam Miller, a slender, honey-haired cymbalist whose older brother Barry is a soprano player. I quietly try to decide which of them I might be more interested in, but in the end am far too shy to reveal secret infatuations to either one. Sadly, Pam’s young life would be cut short in a car accident only a few years later. Carpe diem.
Finally we’re in Portland. It’s just a parade, right? Only problem is, this ain’t Lander or Thermopolis or even Casper anymore. This has the look and feel of big time, baby! My stomach is so queasy I can’t even finish the lousy little doughnut I get for breakfast. I don’t remember much about the parade itself except it was the longest one I’d ever been in up to that point, and I’m certain we made an impression with the onlookers. The following day, we were invited to board the flagship of the 7th Fleet (guys only) as it sailed leisurely up the Columbia River from Portland to the Pacific on the first leg of its next sea duty. We performed for the crew and received lunch in return, compliments of the U.S. Navy. Then we off-loaded from the ship onto LST-style landing craft for the quarter-mile or so trip to the port of Astoria. The river was pretty choppy, and it seemed like a fun notion to pretend it was D-Day for the invasion of Oregon. Fortunately there were no casualties, not even any seasickness that I recall. In Astoria we were the guests of the local corps, the Mariners, who graciously hosted a dynamite little get-acquainted mixer for us - I think I may have even asked Jeanette to dance once or twice. The camaraderie with another corps we enjoyed at this event was my first experience with something which, over the years, would become a hallmark of the corps that came “all the way from Casper, Wyoming” - our reputation as the corps with the friendliest kids around. People liked us. They really, really liked us.
Next it was on to Seattle and the World’s Fair. More mental snapshots: our quarters in the barracks at Ft. Lewis, overlooking Puget Sound; our exhibition performance at the Fair itself, which I am sure astonished its many other visitors; a trip to the top of the Space Needle; Bob and myself awed by the NASA exhibit; a group photo of the Corps in full uniform shot after our performance, standing in front of a modernistic, all-glass building at the Fair. I still have a copy of this picture, washed-out and, unfortunately, partly water-damaged (the lesson here: take better steps to protect these irreplaceable “little” treasures). Some years after the event, I tried to write down on the back of this photo, from memory, the identities of all the Corps members in it. I ended up with about a half-dozen or so question marks. Familiar faces, but names lost over time.
So ended the first, “fun” tour. Now it was back to Casper for a round of ever more intensive two-and-three-a-day rehearsals before hitting the road to the Midwest and that first taste of top-drawer drum corps competition. The big show: VFW Nationals in Minneapolis. We are told to be sure to bring a sack lunch for the first day on the bus, and money for the Bishop’s in Sioux City the next day. I think I had about twenty-five bucks in my pocket for the whole two weeks - and made it home with change. We are also ordered to keep those brand new A-class uniforms protected, shoes polished, hats blocked, horns shined up. After all, the inspection alone at VFW Nationals counts for 10 of the total 100 points.
Prelims: our shortened prelim competition show goes pretty well, a little weak in the off-the-field drill because we had to make some changes at the last minute. Now we watch the other corps and keep our fingers crossed. There are some awfully outstanding groups here. The scores keep coming in throughout the day and we continue to get bumped. Finally, it’s over. We’re out. But the disappointment is short-lived for me. Why? Because I now get to see the entire finals show from the stands, featuring the absolute best drum corps in the country! I have been hearing about these corps all winter long from veterans of the previous year, and have listened to their records played over and over again. Pete Emmons, Jim Wade, Fred and Ken Sanford, Larry Durrett have been telling us rookies all along, “Just wait until you see Garfield!” The Cadets have become demigods in our imaginations. Mr. Jones has from time to time chastised all of us for speaking and thinking of ourselves in terms less glowing than those reserved for the mighty corps from New Jersey.
But they turn out to be, in fact, all that and more. “King of Kings” off the line - the French horn rips that still give me shivers when I think about them. The haunting songs from West Side Story. The maroon and gold uniforms, awesome and resplendent. Not to mention the panoply of other legendary drum corps: the Cavaliers; Blessed Sacrament Golden Knights; St. Kevin’s Emerald Knights; Norwood Park Imperials; Racine Scouts; Kilties; St. Paul Scouts; Royal Airs; Belleville Black Knights. (no, there aren’t any California dynasties around yet, and not a single corps from south of Mason-Dixon). I am overwhelmed by the evening. So that’s what this is all about. We’re going to have to get a lot better.
After returning to Casper we continue in rehearsal mode. And of course there’s the obligatory Central Wyoming Fair and Rodeo performances and parade. No “Drums Along the Rockies” contests yet, just dusty exhibitions on the rodeo grounds. There remains one more major competition trip this year to prepare for, but oddly enough it is not being held until October. Meantime other changes are going on, both inside and outside the Corps. I am now starting my first year at NCHS, an insignificant sophomore, apprehensive about high school classes. Jim Wade is leaving as drum major. A competition and vote for his successor are conducted and Pete Emmons, a soprano player, is selected. American Legion Nationals in Las Vegas will be his first major show fronting the corps.
The trip to Nevada is a pleasant early break from school. I will dutifully schlep along some of my textbooks, including the Washington Irving I’m supposed to read for American Literature, knowing full well it’s mostly for show. We overnight somewhere in Utah, and manage to find a football field with lights where we can rehearse. We’ve got work to do with a new DM in charge. As we go over and over the same bits of music and drill, the local citizenry starts gathering, like moths to a flame. Sometimes they applaud in appreciation after seeing maybe only sixteen bars of the routine. These impromptu exhibitions are always fun and gratifying . . . We feel so . . . important!
Las Vegas is balmy. No October chill in the evening air like at home. We are housed at a high school gym with the Ambassadors from Lakewood, California. They are fun-loving kids we had met earlier in the summer on the Oregon/Washington trip. The competition level for the Legion show has dropped off dramatically though. Because of the location and time of year, only two of the finalists from Minneapolis are here: Garfield, and the Royal Airs from Chicago. We will end up placing an easy 3rd. For some reason one particular recollection from the prelims sticks in my mind. We had already completed our show and were seated on the sideline to watch Garfield compete. I remember a female guard member from the Royal Airs sitting behind me and cooing derisively, “Go, go, Gah-bage!” before the Cadets stepped off. I was surprised by such an attack on the sportsmanship and goodwill that I had experienced in my drum corps life up to that time. What was one of the “nice” kids from Wyoming to make of such a remark by one of the “tough” kids from Cicero? I guess I just chalked it up to the intensity of competition among the corps already at the top.
One of the true delights of this trip was seeing the Hawthorne Caballeros senior corps in action. We had gotten an invitation to visit and observe them earlier one evening before the Legion finals as they held a music rehearsal at their motel on the Strip. They were circled around the parking lot and the sound was unbelievable. They always marked time as they played, and just the sound of their heels hitting the pavement in unison between numbers was impressive. The percussion solos were breathtaking: timbales, bongos, congas, all sorts of exotic instruments we’d never seen before. The only thing better was actually seeing the Cabs in competition. The size of the corps alone was unimaginable. They spread out over the entire field like no junior corps even came close to duplicating at the time. And if the drill wasn’t always necessarily the prettiest from a precision point of view, the power of the music, the intensity, and the emotional energy more than compensated for it. Those striking black and white uniforms with the red sashes didn’t hurt either.
All in all, it wasn’t a bad way to close out the season for this Trooper rookie. I may not have realized it completely at the time, but after that magical summer of ‘62 I was definitely hooked for life!
