Midwest Memo

Once a month, on a predetermined Sunday morning, I get the best seat in the house at University Church at Purdue.

My perch is in a far corner at the front of the church, up past the front pew and even past the pulpit. That’s where the white painted console of the pipe organ sits. My seat is on the varnished wooden bench sitting in front of the console.

The pipe organ at University Church was constructed by the Schwantz Organ Company of Orrville, Ohio. A gold plaque dates the organ to 1973. Unlike today’s organs constructed with electronic circuitry, a pipe organ circa 1973 has mechanical connections triggered by a pneumatic style air system.

The organ has an on/off switch identical to a typical electric wall switch. When you throw the switch to “on” it is as though you have wakened a sleeping giant. An audible rush of air bursts through the system as the blower unit kicks on. The wood supports holding the rows of pipes creak and groan as valves open and shutters shift. A musical instrument this alive in its resting position offers great promise for things to come.

The pipes that give the pipe organ its name are beautiful objects. Many organ installations display the pipes. The designer of the University Church organ put the pipes in an enclosed loft room suspended above a narrow cement staircase.

I followed my usual routine this past Sunday morning. I got to church an hour and a half in advance of the service. With that kind of lead time, I get in a good practice.

Our song leader at University Church is David Carmichael, a guy with a beautiful singing voice. David and I practice the hymns together and iron out any potential rough spots. Sunday morning we used our “executive powers” on one confusing stanza of a familiar hymn.

So when I arrived Sunday, I found the hidden key (don’t ask), unlocked the organ cover, rolled the cover up, pushed back the music rack and flipped the control switch to “on.”

The usual rush of air came, then the creaking wood, the flutter of the shutters as they opened wide. And then, out of nowhere, with no one seated at the console - a single solitary note sounded and held. Actually “note” is too kind a term to describe the shrill, eerie whisper - the squeak that wouldn’t stop.

The noise was too high and too quiet to be described as piercing, but it floated and lingered and shrilled in the background. I speculated that somewhere in Lafayette a dog’s ears were standing at attention and suddenly said canine had a hungering to attend church.

The noise the organ was making is described as a cipher. The usual cause of a cipher is a misaligned pipe not seated properly in the chestwork that holds the pipes erect.

Back in my college days I played the organ at the Presbyterian Church in Jerseyville, Ill. That old organ had enough mileage that ciphers were a regular occurrence. One base in that choir was the “cipher guy.” It was his job to give any squawking pipe a corrective silencing shove. I’d point, he’d dash, then shove.

But this cipher was a first for me at University Church. With no designated “cipher guy,” a ladder was fetched, the hatch to the pipe loft thrown open, and I took a peek. Rows and rows of pipes dared me to trespass. I knew that one false move could create a domino effect that would rock the musical world for some time.

So Sunday morning, like an eccentric choir member humming through silent prayer, our little cipher sang its heart out for the entire hour. It never once took a break. And when time came to switch the pipe organ off, the system responded as though nothing unusual had occurred. The shutters shut, the pumps ceased and the air stopped flowing. But the last sound Sunday was not the little cipher that stubbornly hung in the air. No the last sound was a dog, a howling dog somewhere close outside.