My Last Visit With Don Doane

Written September 12, 2015 Revised on September 19, 2017.

The Author with Don Doane at the Rockport Lobster-Festival in 2009

Editor's Note: Don Doane passed away December 16th, 2015. But the musical legacy he left will shine on indefinitely. Today's post focuses on my last visit with this dear man in September of 2015. There are some personal notes about both Don and myself in this story. Because of this, I chose to get permission from family members before posting. I am grateful to Joe Doane for allowing me to post the story as written two years ago. However, I did edit for content and grammar before posting here. I find that a writer is never done crafting a piece. And I look forward to comments from other musical alumni on Don's past and continuing influence. 

I went to a local veteran’s home to visit my music teacher from elementary school yesterday.

Don was a fixture in my life both musically and personally for a very long time. He was a little rough around the edges, but I just knew he was in my corner. Even after elementary school, Don was involved with the musical interests and aspirations of his students. He showed up for all things musical, and always found just the right thing to say to us. He would encourage, but he didn't suffer fools well. Yet his warmth, sense of humor and love for music and all that played was omnipresent.

High School Music Students would just about bow in his presence. Don showed up to Marching Band practice on his nights and evenings off. He made appearances at Junior High and High School Band Practice. He brought his fellow musicians to Stage Band so the students could experience Jazz played by professionals. 

He did all this without interfering with those in charge, and was still able to command respect from all the kids. We, in turn, would mirror his love and respect to younger students. It's just what was done, and Don was one of those rare figures central to the music program without grabbing any spotlight.

As many of you already know, my childhood was not a happy one. There were countless instances of abuse. Yet when I was with Don, I felt safe. I couldn't wait for our "All City" band practices where all the elementary schools would play together. I loved our local elementary school practices too. In retrospect, these practices were wonderful times where I could forget about any struggles in my young life. Between this and summers at the local pool, I somehow survived my childhood.

I was not a great musical student, but I felt respected, even when Don was critical. It was just his way that he could do so (with or without and over the top reaction of disappointment) that let you know he really cared about you personally. On occasion, childhood antics were met with open frustration. Yet Don expressed himself in a way that was firm to us; while being caring and kind.

About fifteen years ago, they were going to convert the old Westbrook Junior High School on Main Street into elderly housing. They were looking for a name for the building. I wrote an essay about why the building should be named after Don Doane.

In doing the research for this paper, I discovered his private philanthropy and commitment to the arts programs in Westbrook; especially music. Don stood toe to toe with a lot of resistance in that blue-collared town I had grown up in. He made sure that every kid that wanted to play had the means to do so. Parents would purchase musical instruments on reasonable monthly payment plans. When folks were hurting, the payments got made. When talent or enthusiasm was spotted among the poorest of the poor kids, Don made arrangements for these kids to get free instruments.

Many times, Don would play gigs that paid for kids to have that drum, or wind instrument, or time at the piano, etc. He'd scour the local music scene for additional free or reduced priced equipment. The building got another name, but it's where Don's soul enhancing work had its roots.

I've seen Don over the years. He's had a stroke, but still plays a three-valve trombone. He even has a practice time in the nursing home. You may have seen the latest installment of his musical story on the news in the past year (Originally written 9/12/15). 

  

I had seen Don play a few years back at the Rockport Lobster Festival. I was sitting under the tent enjoying some seafood. There was a torrential downpour, and a band was playing behind me. I heard his trombone and was touched by the sound. In between songs, the singer mentioned Doan Doane, and I spun around to see him playing a three valve trombone. I didn't know there was such a thing.

I visited with Mr. Doane that day between sets. He remembered me (as always) and we spoke about our lives. Though Don was dealing with the issues of his massive stroke, he made it a point to find out what was going on in my life, and offer encouragement.

Later, I heard that he had to go into a nursing home. Then I learned that his wife had died. I know Don's son, Joe, and I asked about visiting with him. Joe told me to stop in any time. That was about six months ago.

I don't know why, but I struggled to go and see him. I knew I wanted to . . . Had to, really.

I wanted to tell him all the things he had done for me. I wanted to let him know that I felt safe and secure under his care. I wanted to tell him just how much he has meant to me over the years.

I decided to visit yesterday (September 11, 20015).

We talked about old times. Then he asked what I was doing now, so I told him. He asked how I got into this kind of work.

"As a patient!" I said with a bit of nervous laughter.

That led to a frank discussion about our own battles with alcohol/addiction. Turns out that Don had been sober for over fifty years. He did his work via taking a pledge and confession through a local church. It was serendipitous, because he worked with Father Barrett, the one priest from my childhood that I felt absolutely safe with. I talked openly with him about my recovery. We had so many common denominators. That fateful look in the mirror and not liking what one sees staring back at them. The fear and disgust of being locked in addiction, and so many other familiar places we'd both been to; emotionally and spiritually.

We talked some more, and I was able to add, "Speaking of confession . . .”

I told Don just how much he meant to me when I was a child. I told him that there were many unhappy aspects of my childhood, but I let him know just how safe I felt under his care. I was able to let Mr. Doane know how much his teaching and mentorship had meant to me. Don brushed away tears from his eyes and took my hand.

"Wow!" I said. "You're the first sober influence in my life."

He just smiled and said, "Yeah."

He did deem it important to let me know that he hoped he wasn't too hard on me. I let him know that I never felt anything but respect from him.

We talked a bit more, and then I wheeled him back to his room. He reminded me to come back again. We said our goodbyes, and he said "It's nice to meet the real you."

This is one of those moments promised to me by other trauma survivors. A promise that, if I sifted through the wreckage, surely, I would find nuggets of spiritual and emotional gold. A moment of thanks and gratitude for being treated well as a child by a trusted servant. Someone who honored who I was, and everything I had going on. 

I am truly blessed