When Cassie McKorkle talks about her students, there's a warmth in her voice that feels almost melodic, as if her sentences carry the same steady rhythm she conducts from the podium. She is in her thirteenth year as Litchfield's 6–12 band director, a role she never imagined would become the center of her professional and personal life. She grew up in Kankakee, pictured herself someday joining a sprawling, powerhouse suburban music program up north, and thought her career would follow that script. But life, as it often does, had better plans.

Her path to Litchfield started with a simple nudge. While teaching general music in Whitehall right out of college, her cooperating teacher introduced her to Mark York, the longtime Litchfield music director who was preparing to retire. She applied for the position, accepted the job, and walked into a situation that would have overwhelmed even the most seasoned educator: both the band and choir directors retired at the same time, and the district, hoping to keep the programs alive, handed all of it—band, choir, 6–12—to her.

She laughs at it now, a kind of "can you believe I survived that?" laugh, but at the time, it was exhausting. She ran the musical by herself. She taught every grade from sixth to twelfth in two separate disciplines. And after two years of sprinting to keep everything afloat, she sat down with the superintendent and said what many wouldn't have had the courage to say: "You've got to bring a choir director back. I'm a band director." It wasn't a complaint. It was care for the program. And it worked. The district listened. They hired Ellis Henley. Today, Cassie works side-by-side with Ellis and elementary music teacher Taylor Henley—"my best friends," she calls them. Taylor even bought them matching shirts: band director, choir director, music teacher.

Talk to her for more than a moment, and it becomes obvious why Litchfield's music program feels like a home for so many students. Cassie sees them at their very beginning in sixth grade, when the sounds are wobbly, and the confidence is limited. She watches them progress into seventh and eighth grade, where the first real leaps begin. Then she sees them enter high school and finally recognizes the long arc of growth that only a 6–12 program can reveal. "You get attached to them," she said. "And then they grow up, and they leave you."

What she treasures most is that the band room is a place where every kind of kid shows up. Athletes. Scholars. Kids who don't feel like they fit anywhere else. Kids who are exceptional musicians. Kids who are just learning how to make a sound. "These kids have a home," she said. "Everybody needs a home. I'm totally fine if the band room is their home."

It's not just sentiment. It's success you can hear. Litchfield's IMEA numbers are remarkable for a district this size. This year alone, six high school students auditioned for district honors, and all six made it. Three of her four or five middle school auditions made it as well. Cassie admits her involvement in the IMEA preparation process has shifted over time—especially during maternity leaves—but what she first perceived as a limitation became a beautiful evolution. "They did that all themselves," she said with unmistakable pride.

The truth is that Cassie has built a culture of personal responsibility disguised as music education. Students learn to practice, to prepare, to show up early, to commit to something bigger than themselves. Beginning band concerts may be full of squeaks and near-misses, but they're also full of bravery and delight. By seventh and eighth grade, parents sit at the first concert of the year stunned: "They were just playing Twinkle," she laughs, "and now it's like, oh my gosh."

Cassie also loves the cross-section of humanity that band naturally brings together. She jokes that yes, there are "band nerds," and she proudly claims the label. But in Litchfield, the roster includes cheerleaders, basketball players, football players, academic standouts, and students who devote themselves entirely to music. "I have somebody in every sport," she said. "And I know that comes along with a small school, but it doesn't have to."

She didn't expect to find this corner of belonging for herself, but she's grateful she did. Litchfield is, as she describes it, a sweet, close-knit place where the staff has grown up together professionally. They've celebrated weddings, babies, and milestones side-by-side. Her own children—Henry and Flora—are already fixtures around the band room. Henry comes to early morning jazz band, learning kids' names before getting picked up for preschool. Flora, just walking now, toddles through rehearsal setups.

In her earlier days, Cassie McKorkle may have imagined a different life, but the one she built here is rich, meaningful, and—most importantly—shared. And in Litchfield, the music program is unmistakable: it is a home for kids who need one. It is a place where they learn who they are. And thanks to Cassie, it is a place where they belong.