My America: The Culture of Giving

By Jens Moe

This book is a true love story, told by the son of a humble Norwegian fisherman who became an international and successful businessman. It is a love storyvery personal, very dedicated, very positive and optimistic in the love of America, music, and life itself. It is also a love song to the most important values of lifeto give.

Dag Coucheron, MD, Psychiatrist, Author

Jens Moe personifies a dedicated, modern volunteer and philanthropist. From his own fascinating life story, he puts into perspective US generosity with stunning fairness and admiration. A timeless and valuable book about our country.

Debbie Schuck, Executive Director of Fender Center and Museum

Jens Moe is a wanderer between worlds. Not only between the old and the new world, but the worlds of commerce and art and music. My America is a compelling and compassionate tale of a man finding his true dedication and fulfillment, of giving in America.

Jrgen Ploog, Author

This is the story of a warm and caring man whose deep love for music leads him to become a passionate advocate for music education. On this path he meets the love of his life and discovers the big generous heart of America that powers our dreams.

Cynthia Fox 95.5 KLOS , Southern Californias Best Rock, Los Angles

Experience the dynamic, rich, and enduring American culture of giving, as described by a Norwegian-Canadian with strong and growing affection for America, in-depth knowledge, and a fascinating life story.

• Language: English
• Publisher: iUniverse
• Release date: Jul 28, 2011
• ISBN: 9781462031306

Jens Moe

Jens Moe is dedicated to music education of children and young adults. He has been honored for his engagement in cultural projects in several countries. With degrees in engineering and law, he has served on the boards of directors of many private and public corporations as well as cultural organizations. He currently splits his time between in Vancouver and Ft. Lauderdale, Florida, with his wife, Karin.

Book preview

Contents

Foreword

Acknowledgments

Overture

Chapter

ONE

Between the Lakes

Chapter

TWO

Apple Cobbler

Chapter

THREE

Bittersweet

Chapter

FOUR

On the Other Side of Freedom

Chapter

FIVE

The Prime Minister

Chapter

SIX

Tanglewood

Chapter

SEVEN

Amore under the Berkshire Moon

Chapter

EIGHT

Kids Rock Free

Chapter

NINE

On the Wings of Music

Finale

I dedicate this book to the loving memory of my dear parents, Lars and Johanne Moe

As is my life –

This book is also dedicated to my phenomenal wife, Karin – without whom I would only be half a person

And to our children, Peter, Eric, Lissa, Anneli, and Espen – they rock

Foreword

This is a delightful and inspirational book about the art of what is possible. It reminds me of Alexis de Toqueville’s book Democracy in America.

You will immediately realize you are in the presence of a teacher with great vision and imagination, one who shares his knowledge and experience at just the right moment.

Jens Moe is a man with a wise heart and bright intellect. He walks life’s paths with energy, humor and compassion shaped by humility, grace and generosity.

Steve Miller

Acknowledgments

I am very grateful to the many people who made my row less hard to hoe. They are: Steve Miller, Jűrgen Ploog, Tom Lutz, Del Breckerfeld, Hans Olaf Brevig, Dag and Mette Coucheron, Annik Doeff, Eric N. Moe, Pamela Hogan, Odd Nordstrand, Jan Z. Kubes, Jeff Bennett, John Tavaglione, Mike Kerr, Victoria Parker, Lynda Brown, and Naomi Aldort, friends all. Lise Hirsch and Debbie Shuck, extraordinary women. Janet Galiszewski, my devil’s advocate. My son Eric, my patient researcher and assistant. But most especially my wife, Karin, to whom I read each chapter several times, and who always offered me the best of suggestions, and the most loving encouragement.

There are many others who I have not mentioned. If your name is not here, know that you are remembered in my heart.

Overture

I’ve been thinking about writing this book for a long time, but something always got in my way.

Several friends and experts in the writing and ageing businesses have gently suggested that, at eighty, I am too old to compose a relevant and captivating synthesis. I am certain that would be the case if I were writing about myself. My America the book you now hold in your hands, is not about me, but about many of the outstanding American men and women whose paths have crossed mine. In a broader sense, it is about the people of the United States of America.

Admittedly, you’ll find a lot about myself in the book; I found it necessary to include glimpses of my childhood, my family, as well as the people and places that enlightened me. They developed my thoughts, appreciation for, and opinions about, America. The greatest nation in the world.

The human mind works on the basis of self-interest, beginning to develop in childhood and adolescence, and in that respect the minds of the American people are no different. However, in the pursuit of individual interests, generously giving to others, and indeed in pursuit of life itself, the men and women of the United States are different from all other people on earth.

I have tried as best I can to explain this postulate and the virtue of US philanthropy to thousands of people whom I have met on my sixty year global journey. Some of those people are friends, others, business associates, educators and from the world of the Arts – all keenly interested in conversing about the American people, their material wealth, life style, and geopolitics. Hardly ever about the hearts and souls of the American people. Religious matters are sometimes of interest, but seldom about the magic, and extraordinary care for one another and their spirit of giving, that has galvanized, nourished and moved the American people to the pinnacle of world democracy.

On a beautiful spring day in 2009, I received a letter of thanks from 800 California children, and a coveted award for my volunteer services on behalf of the John F. Kennedy Center for the Performing Arts. My strong and growing affection for America, and this unexpected greeting from the children, hit me with compelling power and irresistibly challenged me to finally write my story.

Thirty-five years earlier, the young students of the Interlochen National Music Camp in Michigan ignited my spirit and kick-started a personal, rewarding, journey of learning about the USA that I am still pursuing.

The Interlochen concept of music education, supported from its inception by generous private donations, fiercely competitive and uniquely American, stirred my mind. At Interlochen, youth from all over the world, including my daughter, gathered for two months of learning and social interaction in the beautiful surroundings of Northwestern Michigan. The students lived in small cabins in the virgin pine forest, ate their meals together and played sports.

We lived in Montreal at that time. With a European education and as an avid reader and concertgoer, I considered myself well informed and when the subject arose I certainly voiced my opinion that the US educational institutions of music were behind the European curricula. Little did I know that my first visit to Interlochen would eventually change my outlook and understanding of music education in the United States, and the enormous private contributions that make it possible.

The Interlochen experience became the catalyst for my future serious studies of what this great country is all about, its philanthropy and music education in particular. Doors opened for me to meet and join men and women devoted to the cause of arts education for all children. My journey took me to extraordinary places and events on the wings of music. Most important, it laid the foundation for, and inspired, my own personal and long commitment to philanthropy and musical education of children and young adults. It has given me a greater high and more satisfaction than any business deal I’ve ever done.

Several years ago, Charles Kuralt, after years of traveling across the country, wrote There is in this country a conspiracy among good people to do good things … 

To the men and women of America who so often and in so many ways let me share your destiny and the greatness of your nation, I extend my wholehearted praise and gratitude. Thank you for inspiring and enabling me to become an intensely active volunteer in my twilight years in service as a mentor of the John F. Kennedy Center for the Performing Arts, and igniting me to write a responsible story.

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The Interlochen account, Between the Lakes, is my reflections as a student parent. At Interlochen, overwhelmed by individual generosity to strangers, I began my discovery of the real United States and her people, and found my own feelings and calling.

Apple Cobbler reflects on memorable events and great men and women I met while in New York and who greatly affected my life. The vicissitudes of institutional generosity offset by philanthropists giving generously to worthy causes. And dedicated servants of the church, who remained humane, sometimes with feet of clay, yet truthful to their callings in words and deeds.

Bittersweet mirrors the kindness, warmth, and devotion of people in an Eastern Seaboard fishing town. Christmas in the City and misfortunes endured.

On the Other Side of Freedom is a chapter about my life as a teen, in an occupied land, as a student and young adult. And in a broader sense, how millions of Europeans regained their true freedom and prosperity because of the American World War II intervention and post-war initiatives.

The Prime Minister Olof Palme, a controversial travel companion, while true to his mission, he also recognized his mistakes and unnecessary confrontations with the US Government.

As a sponsor of Tanglewood students, I met new friends, educators, and great artists in beautiful surroundings, and experienced the fruits of long traditions of generosity among caring, and loving people.

Amore under the Berkshire Moon tells the story of my most extraordinary experiences in music, one unforgettable woman, a Bernstein Birthday, and the abiding love of my life.

The Fender Center and Museum Kids Rock Free story is an account of my role as a volunteer and mentor in the service of the John F. Kennedy Center for the Performing Arts.

On the Wings of Music is the story of some immensely talented young musicians, their dedicated parents, teachers and amazing philanthropists.

To be honored with an invitation to participate with likeminded people in the Kids Rock Free national project, a development of such great importance for the Nation, became one of the very few emotional awakenings of my adult life.

My inclusion in the book of the Fjord Cadenza Academy and Festival, founded and sponsored by me and my family, is an acknowledgement and manifestation of the inspiration, motivation, and assistance I received in the United States at Interlochen, Tanglewood, and from many generous friends, for which I am forever grateful.

I have not thought it required to describe precisely what happened when and where. My recollections would not be that accurate in any event, and would have little bearing on the content. All of the people are real, but some names and locations are my invention. All dialogues did take place, although a verbatim account would be impossible to recall given the distance from now to the actual conversations, and therefore some of the expressions are mine. The gist of the conversations, however, holds true to the actual.

Chapter

ONE

Between the Lakes

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On my drive from Toronto to Interlochen, I stopped at Stratford, Ontario and enjoyed an exquisite performance by Christopher Plummer at the Stratford Shakespeare Theater.

Late morning the next day I crossed the St. Lawrence waterway at Port Huron and headed north on Highway 75 toward Lake Haughton in a brand new 1976 honey beige Chevrolet leased at the Toronto airport equipped with an excellent sound system. The many radio stations emerging and fading on the Michigan peninsula provided wonderful entertainment, encouraging me to hum along as I eagerly anticipated my first visit to Interlochen.

I did not quite know what to expect. In fact, what I knew was limited to some pictures of Interlochen and the National Music Camp from a brochure that I looked at with my daughter, now a student there. There were beautiful lakes, outside concert venues, cabins in the woods, and young students dressed in their traditional uniform of blue knickers and red sweaters. Nearly one hundred volunteers worked daily on the campus. Soon I would see it first-hand. Cruising at modest speeds with open windows, indulging in a bag of succulent cherries bought from one of the vendors along the road and watching the cherry stones disappear along the side of the car, was soothing.

I detoured at Bay City and drove along the Saginaw Bay shoreline, a great time for meditation, enjoying the stillness of the bay, the varied green nuances of farmlands and forests.

The News at Two from Grand Rapids came on and my interest focused on the weather forecast, calling for late afternoon showers in the northwestern part of the peninsula, and the traffic warnings for the Traverse City area. Roused from my meditation by the following program, an interview with the President of the United States, I learned it was his sixty-first birthday. When asked how he would spend his birthday, President Ford answered that he was going to the National Music Camp at Interlochen with the First Lady.

What did I hear? Was the President of the United States really going to Interlochen? I must have misunderstood. My perception of Interlochen was of a tiny village – so small, in fact, that it had no real hotel. Only the student center offered a few rooms for visiting parents, where I was booked. Interlochen had no B&B, no grocery store, and driving through the village on its narrow road would take only a few minutes from end to end. Just imagine! If I heard correctly, then my daughter could be entertaining the President of the United States of America!

Toward the end of the bay I decided to find a service station where I could ask if anyone had possibly heard the broadcast. A small white garage with a dark blue corrugated roof and two red pumps appeared on my right. An older man greeted me congenially as he sat on a bench next to the door leading into his small shop. He seemed a good-natured fellow, enjoying his lunch. I suggested he should finish his meal before filling up the tank and checking the tires on my car. You must be from the old country, he said, because all the young people here are in such a bloody hurry. He introduced himself as Ben and asked me to share the bench with him.

A short break felt good. I figured I had approximately three hours to go and I was nearing half way between Stratford and Interlochen. I’m eating rather well today, he said, firmly gripping a cold fried lake herring, expertly guiding the fish to his mouth, he proceeded to skillfully remove the herring meat off the bone. On Friday nights, he said, the villagers meet regularly for a lake herring fish fry. The lake herring is prime and plentiful at this time of the year and there is no better lunch on a Saturday at the station than three cold fried herrings wrapped in wax paper from the Friday night party.

This is an inconceivable incident for me, I told Ben, because as a child on the west coast of Norway my school lunch often consisted of two cold fried herrings. As we speak, my father, at 79, with a crew of 20 men is on a two-month fishing expedition to northern Iceland. It is his 40th trip to those fishing grounds.

With that, Old Ben offered me his third fried herring, which I gladly accepted and devoured while he filled up the tank, to the tune of $10, and declared the tires OK.

I proceeded to tell Ben that I was on my way to Interlochen for a week where my daughter was attending the National Music Camp. I asked Ben if he had heard that President Ford would celebrate his sixty-first birthday there.

You told me that your father was a fisherman in Norway, said Ben, and I like your story. Now I don’t know what to think. You seem to believe that President Ford is coming up this way for his birthday with the fiddler kids at Interlochen? Young man, go see your daughter, and for heaven’s sake don’t drive off the road or collide with other dreamers. If I’m wrong, he said, on your return trip, I’ll fill up your tank for free and give you all the herring you can eat on your way back home.

There was no reason for me to doubt Ben’s opinion. I departed in high spirits and with a firm handshake thanked him for his kindness. Grinning, Ben’s parting words were, Like me, you cannot live on herring alone.

I got quickly onto the highway and headed north. With the presidential question out of my mind, I could spend the rest of the afternoon driving slowly, listening to the radio, eating the rest of my cherries, and continuing my meditation and daydreaming. The only unpredictable element, and I could see clouds forming, was the rainstorms predicted for the Traverse City/Interlochen area.

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I was certainly unprepared for what happened next. In my rearview mirror I noticed a patrol car signaling me to pull over and stop. Less than ten minutes had elapsed since I left Ben’s station – hardly any traffic – I wasn’t speeding – what in the world could I have possibly done wrong? I pulled over.

The sheriff’s name tag read Donovan. He appeared to be a man in his 50s, and politely asked me for my car registration and driver’s license. While he was studying my papers, I could feel my heart beating and anxiety building.

Mr. Moe, he said, I do not want to worry you. I only stopped you because my friend Ben called me and mentioned your visit with him. You are on your way to Interlochen and the National Music Camp. Is that right? he asked. Ben felt very bad, not knowing that President Ford and the First Lady were indeed visiting Interlochen today. Since I was in the neighborhood, I wanted to catch up with you to see if I could help you in any way. You should realize, he continued, that the traffic up there is very heavy. The President and First Lady are already at the music camp attending an afternoon event by the concert band.

I really had to laugh at myself. The last hour had certainly been an emotional roller coaster and now two strangers offered to help me. Extraordinary kindness appeared to be all around me.

Sheriff Donovan knew all about Interlochen and the National Music Camp. He told me he was born and raised in Traverse City and his family had a cottage on Duck Lake where he spent many summers. Jokingly reflecting on his teen years, he suggested that his summers could have been much more exciting had not the camp and cabin rules been so strict. The kids are busy all the time, he said. In fact, he cautioned me that I’d be lucky to see my daughter for 15 minutes each day. More immediately, I should expect some heavy rainstorms that will slow down traffic considerably.

He thought for a minute and said that the worst case scenario would be that I’d arrive after dark, also after the start of the evening’s concert at Kresge Auditorium. I glanced quickly at my watch to find that it was exactly 4 pm. Sheriff Donovan excused himself and went back to his car to make a radio call. I estimated that the remaining distance to Interlochen was 180 miles. My mind flew in many directions while I waited, and with what I just learned, coupled with the darkening horizon, I was quite anxious to get going. The sheriff’s hint about the student’s life made me give serious consideration to what it is really like to be at the National Music Camp.

Sheriff Donovan returned to my car with hand-written and detailed instructions for my arrival at Interlochen: a piece of paper that truly proved to be of extreme importance.

I had a reservation for a week at Stone Student Center, and with an 8 o’clock start of the evening concert and the President’s presence, Sheriff Donovan’s concern was that I would not make it in time. After 7 pm unauthorized traffic was not allowed to enter the campus. In that event, I should ask any police officer to call Officer Patrick Donovan, his son, with whom he had just spoken, and who was at Interlochen on duty. Pat would find a place where I could leave my car and personally take me to the Stone Student Center or directly to the Kresge Auditorium, depending on how much time was available. I should not worry about the darkness, unless it rains very hard, because sunset is not until 9 pm.

With a grateful handshake, I thanked Sheriff Donovan for his help and for obviously having recognized that visiting my daughter at the National Music Camp was a very important event in my life. We briefly discussed preferred routing issues and bid one another farewell. Give my kind regards to Ben, I said, and left.

Having received such gracious support and valuable information, I felt very secure. In particular, knowing that the President and First Lady were already at the National Music Camp gave my mind plenty of new food for thought. I continued my journey through the beautiful Michigan peninsula countryside.

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I tried to build a picture of camp life. Were family members really welcome? Apparently, the students have very busy schedules and many obligations. They live eleven students to each rustic cabin, on beautiful Lake Duck, Lissa wrote in one of her letters. I hoped she would have some time for swimming and boating, or was it all about practicing? Thousands of visitors attend weekly concerts when the camp orchestras perform with world-renowned soloists. I knew that entry tests had very high thresholds and I knew of the weekly tests for orchestra positions. These all keep students on their toes, I understood, through the entire camp period, with very little time for socializing. Is she happy – can she cope? I wondered.

Lissa’s interest in music meant so much to me. She got her first violin at six and for the last ten years we frequently made much music together. One of the early highlights was the invitation for her to play, at the Ithaca College of Music, with a large group of Canadian and American children for Dr. Suzuki, the famed violin teacher. On that occasion I heard the National Music Camp at Interlochen mentioned for the first time by a parent speaking at the seminar about children’s education in music.

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Watching her confident walk across the tarmac at Dorval Airport boarding the flight to Detroit, proudly carrying her precious violin, filled my heart with pride and joy. Her sparkling blue eyes, intense smile and cheerful attitude made everybody like Lissa. She was always particular about her clothes and how she looked, and dressed smartly. The scent of her Lily of the Valley perfume that she loved so much remained with me for days after our airport farewell. Tonight, if all went well, I would meet her wearing the Interlochen concert attire. I could hardly contain my excitement and expectations.

I thought of how I would spend the next seven days. Would rehearsals and lectures be open to parents? I wondered. Would there be some public performances every day? I was eager to learn about Interlochen.

As so often when alone in the car, my mother’s beautiful singing, laughter and good stories played back. The story about me as a four-year-old and our summer lodger was one of her favorites.

For two summers we had a guest in our home who played the piano, which he brought with him from the city. His quarters were separated from ours by sliding doors, and it was easy to hear the music whenever he played. My mother noticed that every time he played I began acting strangely. I would jump around the house like a kitten with catnip, banging into things, running back and forth, around and about – and this erratic behavior frightened her. In fact, my spontaneous and extremely dramatic reactions scared the wits out of her.

A week of his piano playing and my bizarre antics went by before she talked to him about me. Kindly he invited us in and sat me on the bench next to him. He began to play. According to my mother, I was absolutely silent and in awe. Obviously I was not scared of the music, I was enraptured. The music charged me. The music was not around me, it was in me.

My mother recognized this as a good thing, and being quite an amateur carpenter, she built a small table with ten key-like wooden pieces on the top. From then on, when the renter played I did as well, banging with gusto on my own ersatz piano, rather than creating havoc wildly bouncing around in the room.

Little did I know at that time that our summer renter, Edvin Solem, would become one of Norway’s leading organists and choir directors of the time, and a few years later my regular organ teacher.

My early enthusiasm was nourished by several successive events. I was given my grandfather’s 1850 vintage four-octave pedal organ on my fifth birthday, and an agreement was made with an itinerant music teacher who would travel from village to village, staying about a month in each. I became her youngest student and in my life music came first, my other school work came in a far, far-distant second. Even as young a child as I then was, I recognized that my music-making was appreciated in the village and beyond.

I was soon practicing on the church organ, my mother and grandmother alternating pumping the bellows. The winter cold did not matter in my development because a skilled carpenter in the village built a replica of the pedals of the church organ and a bench to put beside my old pedal at home. It was not a perfect setup, because when I practiced the pedal work I could not pump the organ. That’s how I practiced the Bach Eight small Preludes and Fugues, – I could hear the music in my head.

I began early to dream of a life devoted to music and debuted as an organist at 12. I practiced diligently until tuberculosis struck in the autumn when I was in 7th grade. Like all tuberculosis patients, my plans for the future were greatly disturbed. My mind raced through the unachievable possibilities of how my life could have been, had I been healthy and continued my training for a life in music. There was no doubt that my life would have turned out much differently, although not necessarily better.

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I was on my way to one of the world’s preeminent centers of learning for children of high school age with exceptional musical talents. From what I understood, the Interlochen concept stood alone. Nowhere in the world was it remotely approached in development or execution.

By nature a positive thinker, my mind quickly swung back to the present. The day had been remarkable, and as so often happens, the kindness and friendly spirit of the people I already met on this journey gave me pause, and a helping hand in setting my own compass. Ben’s robust friendliness, and Sheriff Donovan’s thoughtful actions, provided me with a warm welcome to Michigan.

While passing so many beautiful farms, with white houses and red barns, I wondered what it had been like 200 years ago for lonely homesteading couples, trekking into this beautiful landscape with their wagons and children. Where did the settlers come from, and what were their expectations? Their struggles? Family stories flow from one generation to the next. Today, I wished there were more to read about that first generation.

One thing is certain: In record time, their successors succeeded in building a nation that would be beyond their wildest expectations.

I found myself analyzing why everything seemed to take so much longer in the old countries. I know that immigrants after World War II who arrived on these shores asked the same question. The answer is imbedded in the unique American attitude of individual freedom, their can do attitude, and the pursuit of life itself.

I was making good time, now passing Lake City, with approximately 50 miles to go. I decided to turn on the radio again. Roaming FM for some music, I suddenly heard the welcoming voice of Interlochen WIAA Radio. What a wonderful surprise. I turned up the volume and enjoyed listening to the Interlochen news and captivating programming, disrupted only by a brief hailstorm bombarding the windshield with icy missiles. I was astounded at the excellent program quality of Interlochen radio.

No more mind meandering; WIAA continued to deliver high quality acoustic entertainment, news, and important information about the weekend events at the National Music Camp. Naturally, there was much about the visit of President Ford.

More clouds were blowing in by the westerly winds, and intermittent heavy showers continued. The weather forecast for the evening was not at all pretty. At times, the darkening clouds spewing showers made me feel as if it was already early evening, and for a moment brought anxiety about arriving at the music camp in time for the concert.

Crossing the Manistee River near Mesick, the traffic stopped dead and we were stuck for nearly an hour. There was a major accident on the north end of the bridge and as a result, my idle concerns suddenly became stark reality. When the traffic finally began moving, the remaining 20 miles were uneventful, but nevertheless stressful.

I finally arrived at one of the outer perimeter Interlochen security points, but it was past concert time, and I was profoundly disappointed. I paused, took a deep breath before I looked at Sheriff Donovan’s instructions, and stepped out of the car to talk to one of the officers. He explained politely that I was certainly at the right spot, near the Interlochen railway station, approximately one mile from the concert hall.

I showed the officer my note from Sheriff Donovan and asked for his assistance in reaching Pat on the radio. The officer stepped into his car immediately and called Pat who arrived within a few minutes and greeted me warmly. I told him how indebted I felt toward his father for being so helpful when he stopped me on the highway earlier that afternoon. Pat, with the same sensitivity as his father, understood that this concert was of particular importance to me even though I would spend a full week at Interlochen. He quickly directed me to a suitable place where I could leave the car. I took some overnight necessities in a shopping bag, and we proceeded in his patrol car to the steps of the Kresge Auditorium where the second half of the concert had just started.

The Kresge Auditorium must be seen to be appreciated. Surrounded by beautiful virgin pine trees, one side of the building overlooks Duck Lake. A stunning location and architecture, with V-shaped openings spanning each side like huge crescendos reaching out toward the lake.

I now slowly made my way over to one side and settled my shopping bag and myself at the foot of a huge pine, which provided only partial shelter from the rain that was now pouring down. But most importantly, I could see and hear well. The highly energized students of the orchestra performed in their traditional concert uniforms of light blue shirts and red corduroy knickers, creating the image of jewels that I can still bring to mind.

I was astounded at the superb performance with Van Cliburn, as soloist, in Rachmaninoff’s Piano Concerto No. 2. Thunderous applause ensued.

Suddenly the applause stopped. The orchestra members took their seats. Conductor George Wilson, the dedicated head of Interlochen education and the World Youth Symphony Orchestra, reentered and passed the baton to the young student concertmaster who stepped to the podium. The orchestra proceeded to play an unfamiliar, yet exceedingly beautiful, piece. When they finished, the large audience left in silence. I was totally bewildered over this final act.

The audience streaming out of Kresge ran to their cars through the continuous heavy showers