Conference quark::human_relations-v1

1127.0. "Holiday Memories" by SUPER::REGNELL (Smile!--Payback is a MOTHER!) Fri Dec 28 1990 11:03

         "A Drunk in Midnight Choir"

         ---

         We were decorating our Christmas tree when memories of 
         past holidays surrounded me.

         There was the year that Boots [the cat] attacked the
         angel and toppled the eight-foot, fully decorated tree into 
         the spiked punch bowl. Boots was poisoned the summer
         after that, and I will always remember him clinging
         precariously to the top of the spruce tree right before
         it hit the table with a resounding crash of popped bulbs
         and broken glassware.

         And there was the year that I brought home 12 seminarians 
         for Christmas breakfast, unannounced. I met them at
         Christmas morning mass and they were on their way to
         Boston. They brought their guitars and tambourines and
         played for their breakfast while Mother and I cooked
         eggs and bacon.

         And all the years that both Grandmothers would come for
         Christmas Day and we would have roast beef and gravy.

         And the years that we would pack up our presents for
         Cindy and go across town to have late dinner with Uncle
         Phil and Aunt Ginny.

         And the year that we had no snow and I took my first and
         only new bike out into the yard and rode it with the
         Christmas bow still on the handle bars.

         And there was the first Christmas when Eric was just
         barely old enough to realize what was going on. "Ooooh
         Dark!" he would whisper when we shut off the lights and
         lit up the tree.

         And, there was the Christmas Eve that Daddy died.

         I do not pretend that all of these memories are easy
         ones.  And not all of the ghosts are merry. But each has
         a place of welcome at this time of year when we take a
         bit of time to let them visit. And every year, a new
         memory or two find a place in the patchwork tapestry of what 
         these holidays mean to me.

         So, as these memories made their yearly round in my mind
         while I hung lights and candy canes, I wondered what
         memories would represent this new holiday season.

         ---

         Ross is..well, to be truthful, I don't really know who
         or what Ross is. His name, as he pointed out on the walk
         back from the Pine Rock old folks home, was really
         Roscoe. Reason enough, he added between gin-laden rushes
         of breath, to spend one's time drinking.

         He is close to six feet tall, perhaps he actually is six
         feet tall when he is not staggering or stumbling. His
         greasy gray-blond locks straggle down to his
         shoulders framing an angular face that threatens
         to display classic profiles under beard stubble and
         grime. And his watery blue eyes, his eyes are what caught me. 

         They were Daddy's eyes. Daddy's eyes were that watery
         blue-gray also, but the color was not what did it.
         It was the absence of feeling that did it. The total lack of 
         pain or joy that marks a man who has decided not to feel 
         anything rather than feel what is eating him from the inside 
         out, is what caught me when he wandered into the basement of the
         Warner Town Hall.

         Normally, I would have thrown out an unknown bum,
         obviously drunk, who insinuated himself into the choral
         warm-up for the yearly Scout caroling walk. What place
         does a drunken bum have in a neatly ironed and washed 
         little group of middle-class yuppie parents and
         and young children? But as I marched stoutly over to
         tell him to get the hell out, Daddy's eyes mocked me
         and I handed him a song sheet instead.

         At some time he was a tenor.

         ---

         I noticed that Christmas was becoming more hectic as
         December erupted on the scene this year. Every day from
         Thanksgiving on was spent rehearsing for one
         Christmas event or another, or baking things, or
         wrapping them. 

         This year started out with the School Christmas Pageant,
         a semi-delightful evening of songs performed by the Simonds
         School third, fourth and fifth graders. Delightful
         only because parents love to hear and see their
         children on stage regardless of lack of talent displayed
         by same. I know, it is easy for me to speak harshly
         because Eric is blessed with perfect pitch and a
         hauntingly pure little soprano voice. And it is easy for me
         to be caustic because I am blessed with enough musical training 
         and background to recognize truly awful music. 

         I still squirm just a little bit when the three boys in the 
         back of the third grade line-up flat the ending chorus of 
         Rudolph by a good half-step.  And I fail to see the wonder of 
         having Brian stand in front of one hundred and fifty parents of
         ninety or so students and forget his lines yet another
         year [he hates it, begs every year to not take part...].

         And, somehow, I am not sure that singing natty old Christmas
         carols from the late forties builds much character
         in these children.  But I am a confessed skeptic, so I
         grin and bear it. And inevitably, there are moments of wonder 
         tucked here and there.

         Hugh and Sarah sang a marvelous little chorus of "I Saw
         Mommy Kissing Santa Claus" and Jim sang some old
         chestnut that I didn't even recognize, but that I
         listened to enthralled because he has such a good little
         voice. And there were "The Twelve Days of Christmas".

         Eric's class did that one. I sighed silently as the
         music started up. How could anyone, I thought to myself,
         manage to make this run-down-at-the-heels ditty worth
         listening to? Especially by ten year-olds.  I
         underestimated both the creativity of fourth grade
         teachers and the diligence of fourth graders.

         Of course, it wasn't good because of the singing. Eric's
         class is lucky to have more than its share of on-tune
         voices, but the advantage that turned the trick was the
         accompanying fact that almost everyone of his class
         mates is as much a ham as he is. Given thirty seconds
         and anyone's undivided attention and every last one of
         them will break out into song or dance or a comedy
         routine.

         Onto the stage strode 12 youngsters bearing 12 different
         types of percussion instruments. There was a triangle,
         bells, tambourine, drum, and so on. And somehow a whistle
         snuck in. As each verse was sung, another youngster
         marched on stage carrying a picture he or she had drawn
         of the appropriate day in the song, and the matching
         percussion instrument would be beaten, blown, or shaken
         energetically as the picture was proudly displayed.

         As anyone who has even brushed against musical events
         for children knows, the justaposition of noise-makers
         and children and the necessity to make noise precisely at
         an exact moment is a recipe for either great failure or
         equally great farce. This Christmas, farce ruled the
         day.

         It went rather well for the first three of four verses.
         That's an exaggeration. Actually, it started to fall apart 
         on three when Eric strode on stage with his picture of "Three 
         French Hens" which was drawn to the background of the Eifel Tower
         and had a day-glow caption of "OOh-La-La!". He wiggled
         his hips suggestively as he displayed his art work. That started
         the audience laughing, and was immediately followed by
         "Four Calling Birds" accompanied by an ear-splitting
         whistle [the kind they tell you to blow into the phone
         when you get obscene calls]. Sarah had that picture and
         she would stick it in the air for an instant, then drop
         it to cover her ears for the whistle.

         Well, it went down hill from there...in perfect time to
         the music. Cymbals flew apart, bells bonked children on
         the head, rattles spewed their innards over the first two
         rows. When faced with a broken drum-beater on the last
         verse for his drum, Bret good-naturedly beat it over his
         head. All in perfect time, not a word or beat
         missed...and all with the solumness that only children
         can achieve while performing utter nonsense.

         Needless to say, it brought the house down. The crew
         ended to a standing ovation. There wasn't a dry eye in the
         place from laughing through every verse.

         The fifth grade was...well...the fifth grade. I found
         myself wishing them well in the sixth grade at the other
         school next year. 

         And the third grade is full of little people who have
         not yet decided if they can sing or move in time. But
         they tried valiantly. And Michael is in the third grade. 

         Michael is not too bright, and a bit too heavy, and not
         so quick on the uptake. He has allergies which make him
         breath though his mouth so he sort of pants and wheezes
         his way though life. And though he loves to sing, his
         nose being stuffed all the time prevents him from
         hearing his voice very well, so in a crowd of voices, he
         rather loses the tune. He isn't tone-deaf, he just can't
         hear himself well enough to stay on pitch. He has been
         told by a mother who thinks she is just teasing him and
         by a music teacher who should be taken out and shot to
         just mouth the words, so people can't hear him. 

         Michael was standing on the second riser while
         they sang Rudolph. I guess he must have thought that the
         group was large enough to cover him because he had his head
         up and looked to be having the time of his life singing
         "Like a Light bulb!"

         We all watched as half-way through one of the painted buildings 
         started to weave to and fro. And we all watched as it started to
         tumble. We even watched it fall. Everyone, but Michael.

         Michael leaped from the second tier and threw his chubby
         little nine-year-old body, arms out-stretched, against the 
         falling building front and held it until a finally-mobilized 
         adult could get there to put it back up. Then, Michael, who has 
         never in his life, ever, done anything right the first time; 
         who has never in his life been first at anything; who has never
         won a game or a contest...climbed nonchalantly back up
         to the second riser for the final chorus of Rudolph.

         ---

         Ross leaned on Jackie as he talked to her. I could tell
         by the studied smile on her face that she was getting
         the full benefit from his gin-soaked breath.

         "What's your name?" she asked. "Mine's Jackie."

         "Ross...they call me Ross."

         "Who is they?"

         "Everybody...I don't tell people my real name."

         "Oh? What is it?"

         "Roscoe." Without hesitation he told her.

         "That's a wonderful old name."

         "It's odd."

         "No it isn't...it's wonderful."

         "You can call me Roscoe." And planted a kiss on her
         cheek.

         "Thank you, Roscoe."

         We were now climbing the School Street hill. The school
         isn't on school street anymore, but when Warner used to
         have a one-room school-house, it was. Now the street
         sports some of the older houses and newer residents and
         runs uphill until you get to Pine Rock Road. Pine Rock
         is named for the pine tree that grows doggedly right on
         of the top of a huge glacial boulder.

         The kids wanted to sing on the way, so we were all
         huffing and puffing and trying to sing Jingle
         Bells at the same time. The adults huffed and puffed,
         the kids sang. To our credit, we could have sung if we
         hadn't been trying to walk/skip/run in time with the
         music and fifteen or so rambunctious kids. Then some 
         brilliant person decided to sing the "Twelve Days of 
         Christmas" and we started in on that one while climbing 
         the last quarter mile. [I suppose I should take the blame, 
         it was I who suggested the song. I regretted it before the 
         words were even out of my mouth, but suffered from that 
         common malady known as the "oh-no-second"
         when you are able to realize that you shouldn't say
         something but you are unable to stop your mouth.]

         Roscoe liked this song. He would tilt his head back and
         wail on "Five Gooooolden Riiinnnnggggsss' every time it
         came around. Fifteen Cub Scouts and Girl Scouts amiably
         let him emote each time through and picked up the rest
         of the song as he gasped for breath.

         The Post Master came out of his house to see what was going on.  
         The Smiths came out and brought their two little twins in until 
         we had passed by. Now, there is nothing like a little bigotry 
         to help me forget that I was just 'this' close to tossing good 
         old Roscoe out on his ear back at the Town Hall, so I was now
         feeling very defensive of our wavering tenor. Jackie and
         I closed ranks on him. You would have thought he was our
         long-lost younger brother.

         By the time we reached the door to Pine Rock Rest Home, Roscoe 
         had all of us emoting with him, arm in arm, on every 'Five 
         Golden Rings'. It's a wonder they let us in.

         The Pine Rock Rest Home is an old farmhouse but although
         you can still see the beehive oven and the wide pine
         floors, it has that inescapable aura of
         antiseptics and bed pans and bodies kept clean by
         caretakers rather than residents. Our kids huddled in
         the corner by the TV with their song scripts in hand,
         waiting to be told to begin.

         Roscoe on the other hand settled right next to a little
         old lady on the settee and gave her a big kiss and hug. Then
         he danced an only slightly drunken jig around the room
         touching each hand, every face, a hug here...a kiss
         there. And sang his off-tune melodies with his arms
         around the ladies. And every one of them smiled back.

         ---

         The second major production of the season was the "Children's
         Christmas Revels" that Eric was in. They followed a week
         after the School production. This was an auditioned
         affair.  Children tried out in late November and were
         selected on the merit of their talents at singing and
         dancing. So they said, anyway. 

         I think six boys tried out and six boys made it, one of which 
         couldn't carry a tune in a bucket with a lid...but he was male. 
         Indeed, the girls all seemed to be melodic or rhythmic, and 22
         of the female persuasion who tried out did not make it.
         I guess the moral of this story is that if you want to
         be sure of a part in small-town theatrics, be a small
         boy-child. Not much competition.

         Regardless, I was looking forward to this show because
         Eric had a solo in it, and a large speaking part. He had
         been practicing five nights a week for four solid weeks
         now, which meant I had been fetching him to and from all
         those nights. Both of us were looking forward to seeing
         the fruits of all this labor. And I, at least, was
         looking forward to one or two evenings when I didn't
         have to be at rehearsal from 4:00 to 8:00.

         And it was glorious. Drummers drummed; sweet voices
         sang, a tree was decorated; and even non-parents could
         enjoy young talented people singing and dancing to
         favorite Christmas songs. Footlights, curtains, the
         whole feeling of the 'stage' enveloped both players and
         audience and for two nights they shone.

         And for two nights, Eric and Kendra sang to standing
         ovation audiences. They both are sopranos, hers a little
         older and stronger; but his true pitch and sweet. Both
         of a single tenor, their tones mingled so that with eyes
         closed I expect none but parents could tell which was
         whose. And they knew they were good, not offensively, but
         sure none-the-less that their song was just right.

         I was proud of them all, but I admit to being biased. 

         ---

         Back at the Town Hall basement, we passed around cookies
         and cider, probably the last fresh made of the year. Roscoe
         sat between Sarah and Eric and they sang carol remnants
         between bites. They taught him the 'Simonds' version of
         "Rudolph" [like a light bulb], and let him sing 'Five
         Goooolden Rings' whenever he felt like it. 

         Very quickly...for, after all, we had done our caroling
         and we all had a million other pre-Christmas things that
         had to be done on the eve of Christmas Eve-day...we were
         ready to clean up the punch bowl and the cookie dishes
         and lock the basement back up.

         "Roscoe, would you like to take this left-over cider
         with you? And the cookies?" Gail asked.

         "No, Ma'am. No thank you."

         "Are you sure? You are certainly welcome to take
         anything you would like?"

         He shook his head and started to shuffle towards the
         door. He looked at his music sheets and hesitantly put
         them down in the pile Andy was collecting to save for
         next year's carol.

         For some reason, a light dawned. "Roscoe?" I caught his sleeve. 
         "Roscoe, would you like to take the song sheets with you?", I asked.

         "Yes, Ma'am...God bless you."

         ---

         I don't really think that there is much in me that
         qualifies in the "Good Will Towards Men" category. I am
         rather blunt and appallingly judgmental at times. And I
         harbour very little compassion for the weak of spirit or
         the untalented.

         But I recognize good will when I stumble across it even
         if I don't own it myself. There were a number of wonderful 
         things this year at Christmas time, as there always have been, 
         to make my 'spirit light' and to the 'season gay'. But after time has
         muddled the happenings of one Christmas into another and
         they all sort of roll together, I know that two figures will 
         still stand clear.

         ...Michael's grinning face when he ran up to me after the 
         Simond's School Christmas pageant, tugging on my cape, "It was
         me, Mrs. Regnell. I was the one who caught the set! Did
         you see? It was me! I saved the pageant!" 

         ...And the smile that almost touched the emptiness of
         Roscoe's eyes when he left the Town Hall with
         ten pages of xeroxed Christmas Carols clutched in his
         hands.

    Thank you, Mel, for this gift to us.  As before, when I read your
    words, I say to myself, and anyone else who is in earshot, "Damn, but
    she knows how to write!"
    
    				Steve

    Mel,
    
    I could give you compliments and say how good this is... or simply tell
    you I have to wipe a tear from my eye.
    
    Skip

    I have to second the past few replies also.
    
    Merry Christmas, Mel.
    
    					--Eric--

    
    	Ditto here.  While I don't get into this file much
    	it is great to read something like this when I do.
    
    	Happy Holidays and thank you!
    
    	JJ