Allan Stephens passed away yesterday morning; the world has lost a man who personified the word gallant.

He was the director of the bands at my grade school (N-12) when I was there, but he extended his kindness to students who weren't even in his classes. He intervened when a fellow student harassed me to the point that I threw punches at the guy and chased him through the halls (a situation, I might add, where the teacher in whose class the harassment was taking place did absolutely nothing, as far as I know, even though it was blatant enough that I changed my seat in the class to physically get away from the bra-snapping). Mr. Stephens literally walked miles with me one night (around and around a high school track) while I cried about boys I cared about not caring back. (I cringe every time I think about him having to put up with that -- and it means the world to me that he did.)

On a happier note, he taught me how to play the oboe (an insane independent study plan hatched in part because I was genuinely curious about the instrument, but also because my sole option for first period junior year was Business Law; I'd been on the Mock Trial team assembled from members of the Civics class the previous year, and had zero desire to repeat any aspect of the experience). And chimes, since one can't march with an oboe. And a short-lived attempt at tenor saxophone (turns out chimes are lighter to carry). He was indulgent, yet scrupulous: he was the oboe judge the year I auditioned for All-Regional Band, and I missed making the cut by one spot. (As someone who picked up the instrument very late in the game, I was happy enough not to be dead last in the standings, and it was especially sweet during a competition late my senior year when I scored a "Very Good" rather than merely "Good." Not a bad yield, out of lessons given over a handful of summer afternoons and in-between riding herd on several dozen Wagner-loving fifth graders. And one of my assignments ended up being to tutor one of those fifth-graders on the oboe when she chose it as her instrument.)

And he was one of the few people insisting I was pretty before I actually grew into my looks (and clued in to standing up straight and washing my hair). Looking back, it didn't matter that I didn't really believe him; what matters is that he saw the potential and made a point of encouraging it.

He was so kind to others, too -- my pal James has a trove of anecdotes and photos -- and he was practically a second dad to the drum major, as well as an avuncular presence to others for whom band was joy, refuge, and inspiration. (Mr. Stephens actively encouraged us to try our hands at musical arrangements and compositions, and the ensemble's personalities and misadventures provided ample fodder for a longstanding fiction serial generated by one of the woodwind players, each soap-operatic episode avidly consumed in all its dot-matrix glory as it traveled from music stand to music stand.)

I don't miss high school one damn bit, but I will miss hearing about Mr. Stephens doting on his family and smiling at James's shenanigans. I will miss knowing that he's around to aid and abet the mad, the comic, and the quirky (as well as the more sedate and well-adjusted individuals in his circles). I will think of him as I muddle my way through my own responsibilities as a mentor: the freaky, weepy kid eventually grew up -- enough to appear well-adjusted, confident, and competent to the world at large (and now and then it's even true) -- and sometimes I get asked to share that. I don't flatter myself that I can do it anywhere near Mr. Stephens's level -- I don't have his knack for teaching, or the experience, or the good-humored tolerance -- but I do have gratitude, and the least I can do is to try to emulate that generosity of spirit.

Rest in peace, Mr. Stephens. Looking back, what I learned from you goes far beyond how to fuss with reeds and sound like a duck being strangled. ;-)