Mr. Hoyt, The Music Lives In You

William (Bill) Hoyt, Music Teacher

A Mentor to Generations

When challenged to write about a hometown hero, I was a little taken aback. I grew up in a small town where everyone knows everyone else--or so it seemed to me when I was a kid.

What I needed was to introduce someone who really did know everyone. Someone who, in turn, was known by everyone else.

And it struck me: who in town didn't know the music teacher? He taught at multiple schools. No matter which Elementary School you were at, you were going to learn a Mr. Hoyt special. Many of us were strangers when we started Junior High, but Mr. Hoyt was a familiar face to us all.

Although my letter is strictly personal, I know I speak for many people, two and possibly three generations of them, when I address this tribute to a special, favorite teacher. I know you've been a hero to more people besides me.

For 46 years of service and decades of friendship, and especially for the music, this one's for you.

Dear Mr. Hoyt,

After all these years, as a woman in her sixth decade of life, I still cannot call you by your first name. This is not a sign of anything except deep, true respect.

It’s amazing to realize that I have known you almost my whole life. You are one of the adults I looked up to as a child and as a fellow human I look up to you even now.

I can’t be held responsible if I don’t get this quite right, but I believe it was 1966—First Grade for me, and your first year as a full-time music teacher.

First grade was a weird year for me. I never attended Kindergarten, because at that time we still lived in Idaho, and it was only a private school option there. We moved to Green River, Wyoming in November of ’66. I had started first grade in Mountain Home, Idaho, and the move to a new school was…interesting, at best. I was the “new kid” in town and the “new kid” in class.

You were “new”, too. I liked that. We had some common ground. We were starting over in a new place and had to learn the ropes. I loved music class, and wished we’d have it every day. I looked forward to seeing your smile when we all paraded in to sing with you.

Then, by January, I was back in my Idaho school—in a different classroom, with a different teacher. I no longer had a house there; we stayed at my grandparent’s home. My grandmother had had a heart attack and my mother wanted to be nearby.

My cousins had come with my mother’s siblings, but none of them attended school. My old friend, Gary, had moved. I knew no one. I was the “new kid” again, and it was not pleasant. Furthermore, I can’t remember ever going to a music class. I could be wrong—I probably am—but if there was a music class in Idaho, I don’t remember it.

We returned to Green River when Grandma recovered. By that time, I felt like the only constant in my life was music, and you, Mr. Hoyt, are the only teacher who made a real impression on me that year. Going to your class, even in the dead of winter, brought sunshine into my life at a time when I felt displaced and alone.

All through grade school, even when I was transferred to the school across town, you remained my music teacher. When it was time to go on to Junior High, I was sad. Who would teach music now?

Lo and behold—it was you!

Hurray!

My fondest memories of you were in Junior High School, when you formed a choir group called "Triple Trio" with several of my classmates. We practiced after school and performed around town. It was a lovely time.

I recently spoke with a few of the other members of the group, and we all agreed that era was one of our best times ever. We remember the songs. The dresses. The performances. And we remember, with fondness, our great leader.

It occurs to me now how brave you were, spending so much time with adolescent girls with all our insecurities and PMS and angst. Were you brave? Or just a little crazy?

(When my girls were the same age, I wanted to run away from home, and there were only three of them!)

From classroom instruction to Christmas pageants to special performances, you were there. You taught us well, but also—you listened. And when I had nothing to say, you patted my shoulder and told me it would all be okay.

Now for the personal part. I remember this well. I sort of hope you don't. But just in case you do...

On a particular day in the early 1970s, I ran out into traffic—right in front of the school bus you were driving.

I’m so sorry. If you’d hit me, I could never forgive myself for the pain that would have caused you.

I told you that the next day, when you sat me down and asked me what the hell I was thinking. You knew I was too smart to be running out against the traffic light, or so you told me. Why would I risk it? Why would I put you in such a situation?

The truth is I didn’t know it was your bus. I just knew it was big enough to do the job, and on that day, at that time, I wanted the job done.

You missed me—by a lot, as it turned out. Apparently, I was brave enough to make a run for it, but not brave enough to make it a close call. Maybe I just never ran very well. Maybe I didn’t really mean it. Maybe, on some level, I DID know it was you, and you would call me out for it. I don’t remember much about the thought process—if there actually was one.

I just wanted…

Well.

I still don’t have an explanation for you, any more than I did that day when you sat me down and demanded one. I still can’t talk about it, but I did get on with things and I dealt with it in the best way I could.

I just want to thank you for letting me cry it out without insisting I spill my guts. I want to thank you for being there, even though it was awkward and uncomfortable for you. I want to thank you for believing in me even when I couldn’t believe in myself.

I want to thank you, most of all, for talking me down. For making me realize that there were more reasons to stay than to go, and that no matter what, I was worth it.

And I’m still so sorry I did that. From the bottom of my heart, I apologize.

You have always been my hero. I probably should have told you so much sooner than now.

When my own children started school, you were still there—the best music teacher ever.

The oldest started at Wilson Elementary in 1984. I'm amused to report that when I told my son you had been my music teacher, too, he said, "Wow! He must be so old!"

My parents happened to be in earshot of that conversation. My dad said, "Hey! He's younger than I am!"

"Oh my gosh, Grandpa!" Samson cried. "How old ARE you, anyway?"

The funniest part of that story is that little boy of mine will soon be 43.

No, wait. That's not funny at all!

After we moved away, the kids still talked about you. They enjoyed their new music teachers, but none of them were "as fun as Mr. Hoyt." All these years later, they remember you as the "cool" teacher, the one who wrote silly songs and let them play instruments and made class a joy.

That's how so many of us in Green River remember you, too. I'm sure that at any given function, if someone sang out "T.G.I.F." a crowd of former students would join in singing your fun little song.

You're still the cool teacher.

You've retired now, after 46 years of service, but I know you still participate in musical groups, church groups and spur-of-the-moment sing-alongs at the Senior Center. The music lives in you.

Thank you for being my friend, because in the end, that is what you have always been—one of the best friends anyone could ever have.