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No Show Without Poh
Mar. 8th, 2008 06:39 pmThe brassy jangle of the bell overhead was the first sound I’d hear as I opened the door and stepped up from the cement stoop, over the threshold, into the store. It was such a happy sound to me. A welcoming ting to all who entered, signaling immediately that this was a place of melody and music.
It was the spot I went to for all my sheet music and P/V/G books, for pop and Broadway and jazz, opera and rock, vocal music, piano and violin. Endless sheets and booklets of staff paper waiting to be scribbled with transpositions, harmonic arrangements, and original works. Music-themed note cards, pencils, and pens. Coffee mugs, stickers and magnets. You name it, I bought it at Don Poh’s.
From the moment of entry, there was a distinct energy in the air. Electric and inspirational. Joyous. Fun!
Not even two feet from the doorway and already I’d pause, taking in the sight of the main room filled with grand pianos and uprights, my hands itching for the ability to sit at one and play a yearning Chopin sonata or a lively Mozart concerto. If only I had that virtuosity…
Sometimes he’d be there, standing around, sipping from a coffee cup and shooting the breeze with a potential patron or fellow musician. Or behind the counter around the corner, sitting at an ancient desk, chatting with his wife as she poured over the paperwork. But my favorite was when I’d come in and find him sitting at one of the grand pianos, working his magic, luring me and every other customer in, as if we too could play that beautifully, if only we’d sit down on a bench and give it a try. Come on, it’s fun. You can do it. You just need to practice and play.
The man was amazing. First of all, he provided a hall for people to perform in and hold small concerts -- in a room located off to the right, I can still picture its warm light and golden hardwood floors, and hear its great echo. He had a beautiful display of pianos. And not only was he an accomplished, talented musician, but he also could remember almost every single name of every customer who’d ever bought a piano from him, including the exact make and model they’d chosen. There wasn’t a day that I stopped in to the store where he wouldn’t be able to name my parents and which Baldwin upright piano they’d bought. Even five years later, he’d still ask about it, if we all were enjoying it, and if I were there to pick out some new and challenging piece to play.
I would usually make a beeline for the glass case straight ahead, for it held all the wonderful little music-themed trinkets and jewelry, each made of silver, gold or brass, all shiny and alluring. Magical. After giving those items their proper due, I’d then switch my gaze to the more attainable objects in the cabinet -- the coffee mugs etched with eighth notes and treble clefs and thick lines of staff, or the petite boxes of pretty note cards with designs of violins, rainbows and roses.
I’d stand there far too long, practically pressing my nose up to the glass, until Don’s wife Judy would stroll over and ask if there was anything I specifically wanted to see. Despite how that may sound, she never made me feel like an imposition or a pesky kid. She was always so happy to see me, so gracious to help me with whatever I needed.
Sometimes I came just to pour over the shelves of sheet music and boxes of songbooks in the left hand corner of the shop, and she would leave me to my quiet yet intent browsing. Other times I came prepared with a list of longing, all the songs I wanted, all the artists’ books I hoped would be available and in stock, and Judy would take my list and walk me over to the counter, where I would watch breathlessly as she looked up each and every title, to see if they had it. If they didn’t, she would take the time to pull out her numerous catalogs and search to see if the song even existed in print or was something they could special order for me. And if the store suddenly got busy with customers, she would let me stand at the counter and browse those catalogs myself, jotting down all the codes for the wonderful titles I dreamed of purchasing for my own personal music library. I could stay in that store for hours, browsing happily, wide-eyed and entranced. It was heaven.
When I’d made my selections, I’d gleefully present them so Judy could ring them up, place the tell-tale Don Poh Music sticker on the back of each book or sheet, and slide them carefully into a fun, black-and-white, score-decorated paper bag. To top off my visit, she or Don would give me a wink and tuck in something extra, a violin-shaped eraser or a decorative pencil, a little gift to say thank you for stopping in here and being a loyal customer.
Without question, there was no place like Don Poh’s. And no way I’d ever buy my music from anyone else. I always left there with a huge smile on my face, eager and excited. I couldn’t wait to go home and play.
In 2004, Don (and his wonderful shop) retired. One of his former students -- and a piano technician, to boot -- took over for him, but the guy moved the shop to a different location. I’m so glad someone kept the business, but of course it’s not the same place. It can’t be. I’m certain it’s a lovely store and will become a sanctuary for scores of budding, enthusiastic music students, but it will never capture the magic I felt when visiting Don’s place. Whenever I go home to Green Bay to visit my parents, I can’t help but think of what’s missing on East Mason Street. It’s just not the same.
And now I know it never will be.
When my parents came to visit me recently, my dad pulled me aside and said, “I have a bit of sad news for you.” He held out a small newspaper clipping. An obituary. And my heart sank.
My thoughts go to his family and friends. I know they must miss him terribly. Yet, looking upon the picture of Don’s characteristically exuberant, smiling face on the page, my mind immediately floods with joyful memories and treasured time spent. I realize, I am blessed to have known him. He was a good man, and a great man of music. He will be missed.
Thank you for everything, sir. It’s been an enormous pleasure.
It was the spot I went to for all my sheet music and P/V/G books, for pop and Broadway and jazz, opera and rock, vocal music, piano and violin. Endless sheets and booklets of staff paper waiting to be scribbled with transpositions, harmonic arrangements, and original works. Music-themed note cards, pencils, and pens. Coffee mugs, stickers and magnets. You name it, I bought it at Don Poh’s.
From the moment of entry, there was a distinct energy in the air. Electric and inspirational. Joyous. Fun!
Not even two feet from the doorway and already I’d pause, taking in the sight of the main room filled with grand pianos and uprights, my hands itching for the ability to sit at one and play a yearning Chopin sonata or a lively Mozart concerto. If only I had that virtuosity…
Sometimes he’d be there, standing around, sipping from a coffee cup and shooting the breeze with a potential patron or fellow musician. Or behind the counter around the corner, sitting at an ancient desk, chatting with his wife as she poured over the paperwork. But my favorite was when I’d come in and find him sitting at one of the grand pianos, working his magic, luring me and every other customer in, as if we too could play that beautifully, if only we’d sit down on a bench and give it a try. Come on, it’s fun. You can do it. You just need to practice and play.
The man was amazing. First of all, he provided a hall for people to perform in and hold small concerts -- in a room located off to the right, I can still picture its warm light and golden hardwood floors, and hear its great echo. He had a beautiful display of pianos. And not only was he an accomplished, talented musician, but he also could remember almost every single name of every customer who’d ever bought a piano from him, including the exact make and model they’d chosen. There wasn’t a day that I stopped in to the store where he wouldn’t be able to name my parents and which Baldwin upright piano they’d bought. Even five years later, he’d still ask about it, if we all were enjoying it, and if I were there to pick out some new and challenging piece to play.
I would usually make a beeline for the glass case straight ahead, for it held all the wonderful little music-themed trinkets and jewelry, each made of silver, gold or brass, all shiny and alluring. Magical. After giving those items their proper due, I’d then switch my gaze to the more attainable objects in the cabinet -- the coffee mugs etched with eighth notes and treble clefs and thick lines of staff, or the petite boxes of pretty note cards with designs of violins, rainbows and roses.
I’d stand there far too long, practically pressing my nose up to the glass, until Don’s wife Judy would stroll over and ask if there was anything I specifically wanted to see. Despite how that may sound, she never made me feel like an imposition or a pesky kid. She was always so happy to see me, so gracious to help me with whatever I needed.
Sometimes I came just to pour over the shelves of sheet music and boxes of songbooks in the left hand corner of the shop, and she would leave me to my quiet yet intent browsing. Other times I came prepared with a list of longing, all the songs I wanted, all the artists’ books I hoped would be available and in stock, and Judy would take my list and walk me over to the counter, where I would watch breathlessly as she looked up each and every title, to see if they had it. If they didn’t, she would take the time to pull out her numerous catalogs and search to see if the song even existed in print or was something they could special order for me. And if the store suddenly got busy with customers, she would let me stand at the counter and browse those catalogs myself, jotting down all the codes for the wonderful titles I dreamed of purchasing for my own personal music library. I could stay in that store for hours, browsing happily, wide-eyed and entranced. It was heaven.
When I’d made my selections, I’d gleefully present them so Judy could ring them up, place the tell-tale Don Poh Music sticker on the back of each book or sheet, and slide them carefully into a fun, black-and-white, score-decorated paper bag. To top off my visit, she or Don would give me a wink and tuck in something extra, a violin-shaped eraser or a decorative pencil, a little gift to say thank you for stopping in here and being a loyal customer.
Without question, there was no place like Don Poh’s. And no way I’d ever buy my music from anyone else. I always left there with a huge smile on my face, eager and excited. I couldn’t wait to go home and play.
In 2004, Don (and his wonderful shop) retired. One of his former students -- and a piano technician, to boot -- took over for him, but the guy moved the shop to a different location. I’m so glad someone kept the business, but of course it’s not the same place. It can’t be. I’m certain it’s a lovely store and will become a sanctuary for scores of budding, enthusiastic music students, but it will never capture the magic I felt when visiting Don’s place. Whenever I go home to Green Bay to visit my parents, I can’t help but think of what’s missing on East Mason Street. It’s just not the same.
And now I know it never will be.
When my parents came to visit me recently, my dad pulled me aside and said, “I have a bit of sad news for you.” He held out a small newspaper clipping. An obituary. And my heart sank.
My thoughts go to his family and friends. I know they must miss him terribly. Yet, looking upon the picture of Don’s characteristically exuberant, smiling face on the page, my mind immediately floods with joyful memories and treasured time spent. I realize, I am blessed to have known him. He was a good man, and a great man of music. He will be missed.
Thank you for everything, sir. It’s been an enormous pleasure.
