Thanks, Mr. Terry
By Susan Law Corpany

Many moons ago, in the late 1960s, Mr. Eugene Terry, my junior high school chorus teacher, gave a test to all the students in his music classes.  He required us to write from memory all the verses of America, the Beautiful and our national anthem, The Star-Spangled Banner.  It was not an ordinary test where you turned it in and got a grade and that was the end of it.  We had to take the test over and over again until we got it perfect, down to the last word. 

The assignment didn’t fill me with dread the way it apparently did some of the other students.  I much preferred it to the times he would randomly point at one of us to do a solo line from the current song we were learning.  When the “fickle finger of fate” would point at me, I would squeak out a few notes, self-consciously wishing all the musical talent in the family had not been apportioned out unfairly to my brothers.

From my point of view, the blank white sheet of paper he handed out that first day was not nearly as daunting, and I contemplated the words of those anthems to our country as I committed them to memory.  Words have always had the power to stir me, perhaps because I am a writer.  (Actually, I think that works the other way around.) 

I don’t remember how many times it took me to get it perfect. 

I don’t really remember if I finished it sooner than most of my fellow students. 

I do remember that there was lots of moaning and groaning each week when the papers were handed back.

“I can’t believe he’s making me take it over for only missing three words!”

“I am so sick of these songs!”

“Who cares if it is ‘purple mountains majesties’ or ‘purple mountain majesties’?”

And there is one other thing I have always remembered — the words.

Fast forward to the year 2000 — the 4^th of July.  Long out of junior high school, I was a single 45-year-old woman waiting in a small park not far from Temple Square in Salt Lake City, a park where Brigham Young is buried, for an in-person meeting with a man with whom my contact so far had been limited to cyberspace.  At the time, he lived in Hawaii and I lived in Florida. 

When I had first begun to trade e-mails with him, I had imagined that because of the distance, I would likely never meet this widowed college professor with whom I seemed to have a lot in common, besides sharing the unfortunate circumstance of also having lost a spouse.  However, we were both vacationing in Utah that July, and with a little tweaking of schedules, we had the opportunity to meet in person.

It was a Sunday.  I was wearing “the dress” — you know, the one that when I wore it, everyone would tell me those were my colors, and which always gave me an added sense of confidence.  My hair and make-up had been attended to with a little more care that day as well.  And in the pit of my stomach I had that same feeling as years ago when Mr. Terry would point at me for a solo. 

When Thom arrived, I discarded all my rehearsed clever opening remarks and went with “Hi” in response to his equally eloquent “Hi there.”  We managed to muddle through those first few awkward moments and sat and chatted on a bench for a few minutes.  He suggested we walk over to the Temple Square where the Tabernacle Choir was doing a patriotic broadcast.  After enjoying stirring renditions of many of our patriotic anthems, we attended church in the ward that meets in the Joseph Smith Memorial Building. 

As we stood to sing the national anthem, I did not need to grasp the other side of the hymn book he was holding, thanks to that assignment long ago.  I might not have been able to hit all the high notes, but I knew the words.  Tears often come unbidden to my eyes when I sing it.  To me, it is a hymn of praise as much as any other song in the book.

And this be our motto:  “In God is our trust!”

The words were there, as they always have been since the 9^th grade.  (By the way, I understand that Mr. Terry now works in the Salt Lake Temple, so if anyone reading this knows him, please print it out and give him a copy.  Thanks!)

It was a patriotic date from start to finish.  That evening the two of us parked on the hill overlooking the city behind the capitol building and watched fireworks throughout the valley.  I contemplated that I was going to be able to tell our grandchildren that I saw fireworks the first time he kissed me.  (Only I can’t because he didn’t.  He saved that for his best friend’s garage, where instead I saw yard tools and food storage.)

Fast forward again to May of 2001.  Some time after admiring the engagement ring he had just slipped on my finger on a ferry boat in Seattle, I had to ask.  “So I’ve always been curious, after our first meeting, what your first impressions were, what it was that made you think I might be a keeper.”  I waited for him to tell me about my fun personality, my wonderful sense of humor, my aura of spirituality, my stunning good looks, or possibly his awestruck appreciation of the total package.

Without a moment’s hesitation, he said, “You knew all the words to all the verses of the national anthem.”

“That’s not very romantic, but I’m glad you noticed.”

He returned the question.  “So what impressed you that day?”

“That you were from out of town but you still knew the best make-out spot in Salt Lake City.” 

If I had ever contemplated what impact learning the words to those songs might have had on my future (and being a teen-ager, I doubt I did), I don’t think I would have ever imagined it would further my social life. 

Thom and I have been married now for over five years, a tenth of the way to our Golden Wedding Anniversary.  The 4^th of July is doubly special to us now — an anniversary for both us and the country we love.  Whenever we sing along at a sporting event, stand with hand over heart at a parade as a marching band plays our national anthem or rise to our feet in a July sacrament meeting, he will always lean over and whisper in my ear, “They’re playing our song.”