The Man Behind the Carillon

As Printed in The Daily Campus - December 01, 2005

By: Chelsea Weiss

Unlocking the heavy white doors of the Storrs Congregational Church, David Maker pauses with anticipation, leaving the door slightly ajar as the sunlight pours into the corridor. Maker waits, as he has for the past decade, for a visitor who might have seen the invitation in the UConn Advance Magazine that, "all are welcome to the belfry."

Over the years, few have joined him, but he occasionally reminisces about the sporadic music student who climbed to the bell tower. Maker begins the ascent, momentarily glancing back in the direction of the doors.

"I doubt anyone will show," he says, "but after all, hope springs eternal."

Marble floors echo footsteps in the holy space, but the climb to the bells becomes less religious with every step. Dust covers every surface and the space is relatively void of light. One flight up, Maker opens a locked door that leads to wooden steps and a steep, wooden ladder. Then, once inside the church's four-walled clock tower, the dust crystallizes in the sunlight. A creaking time piece sits in the center, waiting to be fixed; it usually reads 2:15 p.m. The last steep ladder narrows toward the top. Maker jumps off onto the landing to greet his carillon. The ladder continues up to the bells.

The carillon is an instrument that resembles a piano from a retro science fiction movie. Instead of porcelain keys there are little wooden levers resembling foosball handles. Maker's closed fists press down on each lever. Behind the lever an attached wire is yanked simultaneously. Each wire runs up through the ceiling to the bells. Above, the other end of the wire is attached to a clapper. The clapper is fixed to the inside lip of each bell. A strike of the lever pulls the wire, slapping the clapper against the stationary bell. A ring resonates in the upstairs room which is filled with 31 bells that pour their song through the wooden slats around them.

The corners of Maker's musical workshop are filled with foamy chemicals to kill wasps. Even in the fall it's hot up there. In October a small thermometer on the edge of the carillon reads 83 degrees. The walls barely hold the peeling pictures of European bell towers, once carefully pinned up. A blank calendar waits to be filled with scheduling. Little plastic strawberries on vines rest in cases on either end of the carillon.

Maker is at ease in this room, oblivious to the world below. His black, bulky sneakers begin to press the instrument's foot pedals. While positioning himself into the worn hollow in the middle of the wooden bench, he taps his toes. Sure as a pianist, he holds both hands above the levers as if to play a concerto in E minor for the Boston Philharmonic. His hands quickly close into fists as he warms up the bells. They intermittently blare into the campus below, competing with car horns and interrupting naps in the dormitories nearby.

For Maker, nothing is by chance. He plans the songs weeks in advance. This day he chose the song, "Harvest Home," in honor of the harvest noted in the Farmer's Almanac. In the same vein, his second song, "We Plow the Fields and Scatter," will finish his eight-minute recital.

Maker plays the carillon starting sharply at 4:30 p.m. on class days.

"It's the worst place to hear the music in here," he said.
His satisfaction comes from the physical ability commanded by the instrument. His arms move quickly across the levers, as he delights in the sport of the machine's music.

Change ringing is the art of ringing the bells in a series of mathematical patterns called "changes." The song can change depending on how the musician decides to play the change ringing. Maker has adapted the change ringing to be easier for amateurs to play. After trying different methods of indicating the coordinating keys by color, he settled on hair elastics. The garish pink and neon yellow shout from the ends of the lever. They sit waiting for a visitor who could play the change ringing alongside Maker, as the music is written for two to six people all playing at the same time. But this day, Maker is the sole performer.

Running up through the inner organs of the church, Verizon cell phone cables make their way to the steeple's tip. Its existence aches of the modern times that meet demands for better mobile service instead of humbling melody after prayer service.

The Austin Cornelius Dunham Carillon was created in 1931. In 1915 Dunham gave money to the school which was used on books, scholarships and a pool in the basement of the Armory. After Dunham died, the rest of the money was used to purchase a carillon. Dunham never knew about the bells. It was first played on Commencement Day in 1931 and has been put to better use by Maker over the last decade.

If no one ever pays attention, climbs the wooden ladders, helps him clean the bells, or replaces broken parts, Maker will still play. He is in a dance of endless chimes, hoping someday he wont have to climb alone.

The ringing, ding-dong, ding-dong of the bell tower is lost in the honking, screeching traffic below. Students whirring on bikes, in cars and on foot barely glance up to the white steeple bellowing careful chimes and choreographed harmonies. Excitedly birthing a tune to celebrate the collegiate breeze, the bells strive to stir the music of the soul, but often fall upon deaf ears.