Prentiss Remembrance

John Prentiss: A Remembrance

by Carl Sharpe

John Prentiss was one of the first people I met when I came to Darrow in the fall of 1960. I was pretty much of a loner as a kid prior to my arrival and I got a rather rude awakening to the vagaries of the world of Darrow from John and John Cavallo. I was picked on by the two of them, mainly as I recall, for my Worcester/Boston accent, but for other things as well.

Little did I realize that this behavior, which I considered taunting at the time, was meant in good spirit and even with affection. I was soon to find out.

I worked diligently at losing my accent (which has been a very good thing for me over my life). John Prentiss and I soon became fast friends, sharing, as it would turn out, a love for jazz music together, among other things.

Our close friendship really developed during a weekend we spent at his home in Castleton-on-Hudson, New York. There, I met his parents and marveled at their home, a deck house that seemed to be in the middle of the woods—a home echoed perhaps by his place in Georgia.

I will never forget John asking his father if the “old banjo” was still in the attic on that Saturday afternoon. His father said that it probably was and John went off to look for it. A bit later, he appeared with it in the living room and opened the case as though it were a Christmas present. He, of course, could not play it but strummed a bit anyway. He commented on how he liked the sound and was going to bring it back to school with him.

His dad, and I as well, thought that that this was a little bizarre. But then again, John was often unpredictable, and he certainly knew what he liked--and did not like--and he made no bones about it.

Over time, I watched (and listened!) as he learned the instrument—entirely self-taught. It was amazing how he took to it and loved working at it. The images of John leaning over that banjo, learning chords and wrist techniques, are easily—and now sadly—brought to mind.

I played the piano, and it wasn’t long before we started playing together. In a short time, we had a jazz band at Darrow. John quickly surpassed any abilities I had at music, but we had great fun—perhaps more than we should have. I guess it’s OK to talk about it now, but we frequently snuck out of school on weekend nights and took the bus to Albany and other places to play in various bars, often until two in the morning. We had great fun, and people loved to hear us play. We never got caught and in fact no one even suspected that we were doing such things. We were stealthy in all that we did, from stealing cookies from the kitchen at night to lighting fireworks off under Mr. Nunley’s bed!

John got better and better at the banjo, and after Darrow he continued to play in various bands. I went to see him play a few times, but before long, time and geography separated us, although we managed to stay in touch occasionally.

One of the many great joys of our fortieth reunion was reuniting with John—in person. He was virtually the same man as boy. And he still made a little fun at my expense! Little did I imagine that this time would be the last we would spend together. We talked on the phone a couple of times afterwards, and exchanged e-mails often, enjoying our liberal views while we felt all around us our more conservative classmates.

Still bonding after all those years.

The simple fact is I never could—nor will I ever-- think of Darrow without thinking of John. They are inseparable ideas to me. I think that when I return there I will still be able to hear John’s derisive, affectionate laughter at my pronunciations of “waddah” for “water,” and “Caah” for “car.”

But more certainly, I will hear in our old room that singular voice with its wry and perceptive comments, his mocking laughter at my expense, and of course that wonderful banjo echoing through the halls. Limehouse Blues and Ja-Da.

I am so sorry that it ever came to the point where I had to write such a piece as this about John. I wish there were a greater tribute I could make. Absent that, this will have to do, I guess.

And so, goodbye, old friend.

May God grant you music, laughter, love, and peace forever.