I never did much singing as a kid, other than at Scout camp and such things, although in high school, I hung out with the music and drama crowd. There were some really talented kids in that crew, some of whom went on to fame and fortune. When I was a senior in high school, a somewhat older friend got interested in opera, went to a voice teacher and discovered that he had a fairly good tenor voice, and became so enthusiastic about it that I wound up going to the same teacher. Turned out I am a bass-baritone. I had no idea what I was going to do with my voice, but I went around blatting tenor arias—an octave down—for awhile. Then, at the University in the early Fifties, I fell in with a small klatch of folk singers and got permanently hooked on folk music.

What practically shut me down shortly after I started was the first time I heard my own voice on tape. "Gawdawful!" I thought, but others assured me that I sounded fine, and everybody reacts that way the first time they hear themselves. So when I had initial doubts, other people actually encouraged me to keep at it. Thanks, folks! Thanks a million!!

Probably one of the reasons that I never actually joined in the musical and dramatic activities in high school was that, due to polio at the age of two, I walked with a leg brace and a pair of crutches. It didn't seem likely to me that there were many parts for someone to galumph around on stage with crutches, so I never tried. One of the teachers involved in the next year's senior play, which was to be "You Can't Take it With You," liked my speaking voice and asked me if I would like to take the role of Grandfather. I raised the question about my crutches, and he told me that, in the movie, Lionel Barrymore played the role while sitting in a wheelchair. No big deal! But unfortunately I was graduating that June, so there went my acting career.

Picking up on "Feel free to share any experiences you've had when people told you you'd never be able to do something, and you proved them wrong." if I may:—

One thing I did do that surprised even me was to take up fencing. At about fourteen or so, I had become addicted to Sabatini's historical novels (Scaramouche, Captain Blood, Master-at-Arms, etc.) and swashbuckler movies, such some of the Errol Flynn epics, and "The Mark of Zorro" with Tyrone Power and Basil Rathbone. I wanted to learn to fence so bad I could taste it. I knew it was impossible. But I also knew they had a fencing class at the YMCA, so I went there one evening to watch, and I met Katherine Modrell, a local champion who taught the class. I told her that I would really like to learn to fence, but I figured that there wasn't much chance. Was there?

She looked at this fourteen-year-old kid standing on crutches, and instead of quite reasonable telling me that I was right, there was no chance, she said, "Okay, let's see what you can do." She asked me questions and made suggestions. It turned out I could stand with the support of one crutch and assume a straight-legged approximation of the guard position. I couldn't lunge at all, but I could step fairly briskly back and forth (advance and retreat). Once she determined that I could stand and move with some stability, she handed me a foil and mask and we started in on bladework. She reasoned that if my opponent was close enough to land touches on me, I was close enough to land touches on them. In the lessons, we worked especially hard on defensive offense: parry-ripostes and counter-attacks. After several weeks, she let me squared off with other students. I was actually doing it, and I was having a ball!! This was long before anything like Special Olympics or wheelchair fencing came along, so it was assumed that I would never participate in any fencing tournament activity; certainly not any of the regular tournaments that were going on.

But—when I was about nineteen, I took some fencing lessons from Hans Halberstadt in San Francisco. I was looking forward to a competition that was coming up, because it would give me a chance to see some of the best fencers in the country in action. Fred Linkmeyer, three times national épée champion would be there, along with Salvatore Giambra and Gerry Biagini, both of whom were on the U. S. Olympic team. I stood there with my mouth opened when Maestro Halberstadt insisted that I enter! After I digested the idea, I figured, "Okay. I'll get creamed, puréed, and spread on toast, but at least it will give me a chance to actually play with The Big Kids." There were twelve entrants, including the Linkmeyer, Giambra, and Biagini. To the surprise of almost everybody, my own most of all, I finished in fourth place!

Halberstadt, though, looked smug. He had fenced in the Olympics when he was young, but now he was seventy years old, built like a beer barrel, and his legs were shot. His footwork was not much more extensive than mine was. "Fencing is in the hand and in the brain," he said. "It's not all fast lunges and fancy footwork." Gerry Biagini was terrific: twenty-three years old, tall and slender, fast as greased lightning, and beautiful to watch. Yet, when he and Halberstadt fenced seriously, Halberstadt could land three touches on Gerry for each touch Gerry landed on him. Hand and brains, both of which Gerry had, but he didn't have Halberstadt's experience and cunning. Good fencing can be like high-speed chess.

When I returned to Seattle, people, including Bill Modrell, Katherine's husband and one of the best fencers in Seattle, thought I had lost my mind when I said I was going to enter the next Pacific International Tournament. But I wound up making it all the way to the finals. In subsequent tournaments over the next five or six years, I actually beat Bill a couple of times, and on one occasion, I defeated the then Canadian National Champion, George Braund, five to two. I never won a championship, but I amassed a satisfying collection of second and third place medals and trophies.

I eventually dropped out of fencing when I became deeply involved with folk music. But it occurred to me that a crucial moment was when Hans Halberstadt pushed me beyond what I thought I was capable of. But ever that wouldn't have happened were it not for Katherine Modrell who looked me over, saw beyond the crutches, and said, "Okay, let's see what you can do."

Thank you, Maestro. And especially, thank you, Katherine.

Don Firth