In 1961, Mr. John Van Epps arrived at Horace Mann Junior High, where he was to be choir director. It did not take him long to develop his reputation.
Would you call yourself strict, I ask him. “Oh, God, yes,” he says.
Those were the days of the paddle, and he was unsparing in its use. Come in late, you’d get the paddle. Should the cause of your tardiness be hallway dilly-dallying with your boyfriend, Mr. Van Epps might take the paddle to him. It was not unusual for him to start class by bellowing, “Sit your asses down!”
If such language, or his proclivity to paddle, caused serious offense, he rarely heard about it. Should he call a parent to report student misbehavior, he says, “those old Chicano and those old Italian families would say, ‘Hit ’em again!’ “
In the earliest of his 22 years at Horace Mann, Mr. Van Epps would, on occasion, sing opera until the wee hours at a place called Mario’s. Upon arriving at the next day’s 7 a.m. practices, students might find him napping on the floor, with the words: “Mr. Van Epps is not feeling well today,” written on the chalkboard. This happened rarely, but it was memorable, nonetheless.
Mr. Van Epps was not, he confesses, particularly popular with his colleagues.
He was volatile and profane and funny. When overcome, he would seize the back of his head and pull handfuls of hair toward his face. He believed his students capable of singing with such grace and precision that audiences would offer thundering ovations, leaping skyward as if their suddenly soaring hearts had pulled them to their feet. He was a stickler for detail. The blue robes of the front-row altos and sopranos had to be hemmed to the same length. Each girl wore a white bow in her hair; each boy, a black bow tie.
If this were all there was to Mr. Van Epps, we would not be here today. We would consign him to the past where such slightly mad teachers reside, the purgatory reserved for those whose virtue cannot be assessed from our modern-day vantage point.
But we are here.
It is Saturday, Aug. 14, and gathered in the cafeteria of the school once known as Horace Mann Junior High, and now called Trevista at Horace Mann, are more than 200 members of the choir from years 1963 to 1982.
When Mr. Van Epps, now 77, walks through the door, they surround him. They hug him and tell him he changed their lives, gave them discipline, respect and pride. They tell him they have never forgotten him.
They say: “He told it like it was. He inspired me so much. He held nothing back from us. He believed in us as much as we believed in him.” (Tracy Vega, choir class ’79)
“You know that famous teacher, Jaime Escalante? Mr. Van Epps was the equivalent in music.” (Roger Molinar, ’65)
“He brought this school something it didn’t have, and he expected no less than perfect. He wanted you to be better. He worked with you. The bottom line was, he cared.” (Georgia Mucilli, ’65)
It is tempting to think nostalgia has colored their views, that back when they were 14, they hated Mr. Van Epps. And sometimes they did. But they loved him, as well. They were kids from working-class homes, and some had disasters for families. Mr. Van Epps offered an opportunity to be something greater, an opportunity they had to earn.
It is not by accident that by his second year at Horace Mann, choir membership was sought-after. More than 200 kids regularly tried out. Only 100 were accepted because the choir room could seat no more.
The choirs performed all over the state. They sang in St. John’s Cathedral when a student choir doing such a thing was unheard of. They cut albums, which are treasured today.
At the end of the school year, Mr. Van Epps would take that newly pressed album home. He would light a fire, no matter what the temperature was outside. He would make himself a pitcher of Manhattans and slide the album out of its sleeve, and, missing them already, he would play their music and cry.
At the reunion, Mr. Van Epps slips away from the cafeteria and heads to his old classroom. A small group follows, and a few of the women start to sniffle. “You’re going to make an old man cry, and that’s going to be hard for me,” he says. “Some good memories, huh, gang?
“The best.” “Absolutely.”
“I think this is something I probably shared with you kids, too,” he says. “I was brought up poor, and I was ashamed as a young man of my living style and of our home and what I did.” His voice grows thick. “You kids helped me be a somebody.”
A few days later, Van Epps tells me: “Saturday was hard for me. You get all that adoration and you think, ‘I don’t really deserve this.’ You know, you don’t set out to give them life-changing experiences. You think, ‘I’m going to give you life-enhancing experiences, you and I, as a team, and we’re going to make this happen as a family.’ But to accomplish this, we have to have discipline, but also a lot of love, a lot of hugs, a lot of ‘you’re wonderful.’ It wasn’t just me saying it. When they performed, they brought people to tears.
“It’s hard to look back now. It was a different time, a different ambience. God, they brought so much into my life. That’s what made Saturday so tough. I realized that will never happen again. That time is gone.”
They’re posing for pictures in the auditorium now, and a clamor starts. Can we sing a song? No, Mr. Van Epps says. “It’s been too long. Some of you haven’t sung in more than 30 years.” Please, his former students say. He turns suddenly stern, their choir director again. “I’m not going to do this if it’s going to be a joke. If we do it, we do it with dignity.”
They snap into position, altos and sopranos in front, tenors and basses behind. They sit, backs straight, chins high, the women press their knees together and fold their hands onto their laps. He works quickly with each section, singing along in his still-beautiful baritone, playing a few notes on a piano at the foot of the stage.
“Let’s do the whole thing, gang,” he says. “This will be our last time together. So nice and tall, with dignity.”
And they sing: “Let us break bread together on our knees. Yes, on our knees. Let us break bread together on our knees . . .” Mr. Van Epps stands before them, conducting.
Only in the most superficial way can the moment be described as a group of middle-aged men and women reliving a time gone by. It is, instead, an act of love, of mutual generosity and respect, and such moments are not bound by time. As the last notes die and the applause begins, Mr. Van Epps buries his face in his hands to hide his tears.
They rush to him and he shoos them back, and, just like he did in the old days, Mr. Van Epps looks out and barks: “Sit down!”
Tina Griego writes Tuesdays, Thursdays and Saturdays. Reach her at 303-954-2699 or tgriego@denverpost.com.
