A Ghost from Christmas Past

"All I want for Christmas is my two front teeth"
and for my sister to be out of prison garb.

It’s not unusual to wax nostalgic during the holiday season.  After all, Christmas as a child generally consists of all the fun parts of the holiday season, decorating, eating, visiting, and making and receiving gifts.  As adults, we realize the work involved in creating holiday “magic,” the hauling down of decorations from the attic, the unraveling of the light strings, the planning and shopping for the holiday feasts, and coping with irritated holiday shoppers.  What restores the holiday cheer is often the music, music that can instantly put us in front of the tree, sharing cheer with our loved ones, or singing in the school chorus.  To this day, the opening line of “We Need a Little Christmas,” brings me back to fifth grade on one particular day with the chorus teacher, Mrs. Krause.

It was the third year I was in the chorus.  That year, we “auditioned,” although I didn’t know anyone who was cut.  Without any advanced notice, those who wanted to join the chorus went one by one into an empty room with Mrs. Krause and were told to sing something.  I froze up, not knowing what to sing.  Mrs. Krause started me on “Mary Had a Little Lamb,” except she was a soprano and I was … well, I suppose an alto, but “halt-o” might be a better description.  Still, the tune was identifiable, so I was “in.”  Whether through kindness or charm, being a bad singer was not reason for exclusion.

In those days, school really did feel like a second family.  It seemed like all the teachers, at least by grade level, knew all the students.  Or maybe, as I learned when I took my turn behind the desk, it was that they learned the names of the rabble-rousers first, so that when they called out that child’s name, the rest of us assumed they knew all of our names. With turnabout being fair play, the students also knew all the teachers.  I never had Mrs. Krause as a teacher, but even I knew that no one messed with her.  One kid tried, and she took him by the ear to the principal’s office.  Teachers took in loco parentis seriously back then and our parents supported them.

When I first heard the term “battle ax,” I knew immediately what it meant.  Mrs. Krause was the “Coach Beiste” of our school with an undershot jaw, a pugilist’s nose, and a chest that entered the room significantly before she did.  She always wore dresses (as did most of the teachers in the mid-70s), but because of her build, they looked homemade, usually of a “sensible” fabric, to go along with her sensible shoes.  The bottom of her slip and top of her knee-highs usually showed, probably because her chest blocked the view of anything below it.   

But Mrs. Krause was also one of the kindest teachers I knew.  There was one girl at our school who was from a seriously troubled home.  While this girl frequently acted out, I remember seeing her in quiet conversation with Mrs. Krause several times, and as I was well acquainted with the girl, I knew Mrs. Krause frequently bought her her lunch.  On cold days, Mrs. Krause left her classroom open for lunch and recess, so her students and their friends could take shelter.  Mrs. Krause also wasn’t afraid to give hugs, grabbing us with her Popeye arms and smushing us against her iron clad bosom to express thanks or to praise us for a job well done.

That one day of chorus practice, we had gone through our repertoire of traditional songs and were finishing with “We Need A Little Christmas,” one of our favorites.  We couldn’t get past the first line and we could see the growing frustration on Mrs. Krause’s face.

“Can’t you hear the difference?” she said in exasperation.  “It’s not, ‘Haul out the hooo-oooolly,” It’s, ‘Haul out the hol-ly.”

We sang it over and over again, some of us hearing the difference, others still struggling.  We muttered among ourselves, exaggerating the desired version to help those that didn’t understand until finally we all got it right.  Mrs. Krause beamed and we grinned back, continuing the song with smiles on everyone’s face.  She praised us afterwards, not just on the song, but for rehearsal that day, congratulating us on our persistence.  My friends and I laughed about how long it took for us to figure out the problem and how glad we were that we did.  Other students were doing the same as I could hear smatterings of “haul out the hol-ly” as we walked out the door.  When it came time to perform the song, we all gave a little extra effort to do “hol-ly” and Mrs. Krause proud. While I don’t think she intended for us to accent the word, her nod and wide smile said our conscientiousness was appreciated.

Whenever I hear “We Need a Little Christmas,” I always listen carefully for the “hol-ly.”  37 years later, I still smile.  My heart swells as I remember Mrs. Krause and how our chorus came together to bring a little Christmas to each other that day.

Freedom of Voice



Sometimes a voice should be used, but
not heard.

My family is a musical family.  We love to express ourselves through music.   Strangely, despite my father knowing how to play clarinet and my sister and I having played competitive level piano, we prefer the most primal route.  We sing.  And we sing all the time.  Loudly.  Usually acappella.  And stone cold sober.  And for three of us, not very well.  Most people would find this disturbing and grounds for institutionalization.  Or at least a violation of the local noise ordinance.

I’ll start right off by clearing my sister.  She has a great voice.  It’s not a sweet Sandy Denny soprano nor even a hip Lady Gaga voice.  My sister’s voice is a booming Broadway voice that could bring Ethel Merman to her feet and show Lea Michel a thing or two about breathing and hitting a note squarely as it should be rather than sliding around it like butter on a hot plate.  She actually performed with her voice.  The rest of us just sing.

We played and sang a variety of music in our house.  My father played swing music on the stereo so we were exposed to the Andrew Sisters, Bing Crosby, and Johnny Mercer at an early age.  My mother favored Burt Bacharach and with him, Dionne Warwick.  My sister developed a crush on Andy Williams (although I think it was really because she wanted to get to know Cookie Bear) and so she got an album of his.  I liked the traditional and sentimental songs found on children’s records, so I’d go around the house crooning ‘Let me call you sweetheart” or making everyone sick to death of Daisy whenever I rode my bike.  The neighbor boy showed us where to find rock music on the radio.  A whole new world opened and I embraced Bo Donaldson and the Heywoods while my sister gravitated towards The Beach Boys and Elton John. 

Because it was the age of variety shows, my sister and I used to provide after dinner entertainment for my parents with musical revues.  We did solos and duets, but the grand finale was always a huge medley of random songs, usually not preplanned, but involving a word in a lyric that overlapped with another lyric.  It felt like the shows went on for hours.   I'm sure my parents would agree.  Then my dad changed jobs and stopped having dinner with us.  It was the end of an era.  We went solo and stopped performing before a live audience.

 My sister and I took turns listening to albums on the stereo.  The headphone cord wasn’t very long, so we’d sit on the carpet, leaning against the bar, studying album covers and reading record sleeves (something I dearly miss with downloads).  We’d close our eyes and become absorbed into the music. 

One warm summer day, it was my turn to use the stereo.  The patio door was open, allowing a cool breeze to blow through the house and I was transported to a blissful circa 1960s beach with no sand or sunburn, listening to Jan and Dean.  It was all fine and dandy until dinner time when my sister whipped out the tape recorder. 

“Do you want to hear something?” she asked our parents.

“Sure,” they said.

My sister frequently recorded herself singing along with Andrea McArdle in hopes of being the next Annie.  However, tonight’s performance was not my sister.

"Deadman’s curve it no place to plaaaaay …oooh eee wah ooh …Deadman’s curve , you best keep awaaaaaaaaaay …”

There’s a reason why recording artists have the audio of their mikes looped back into their headsets.  I was mortified.  My parents laughed themselves to tears and my sister chalked one up for the younger sibling. 

Despite the embarrassment, I continued to sing along with the stereo.  The joy of singing with Patti Lupone easily outweighed any humiliation a hidden recorder could bring.   It’s not that my singing improved.  In fact, when I practiced sight singing with my piano teacher, the dog would routinely run out of the room to the furthest corner of the house.  He’d only return to the living room once we moved on to playing. 

Singing to albums or while doing chores or to pass time is a different category altogether.  It’s not only self-entertainment, but a way to more pointedly express emotions, like when I sang “Just You Wait, Henry Higgins” as I vacuumed and dusted or when my sister lamented that “maybe far away or maybe real nearby” she had “real” parents waiting for her in their mansion.  In a way, we lived life as a musical.

The extent to which our lack of musical inhibitions wasn’t normal was a brought forth during friend’s overnight stay.   

"What’s your mom doing?”  my friend whispered wide-eyed from the bed in the morning.

 “Making breakfast,” I said while stretching.

“No,” my friend said, then dropped her voice, “the other thing.”

“Other thing?” 

My friend frowned and listened to the swirling wail that came from the kitchen.

“Is she doing some sort of special Japanese prayer-thingy?”  she asked, trying not to be offensive, but curious about cultural differences.

“No,” I laughed.  “She’s singing.”

“A Japanese song?” my friend asked, perhaps referring to her perception of an Asian atonal scale.

I strained my ears trying to identify the tune.  My mother is horrible with lyrics.  Forget melody.  I heard something about “sgy.”

"'scuse me, while I kiss this guy.."

“I think it’s Jimi Hendrix,” I said getting up to check.

My friend trotted after me, looking at my then sixty-something mother contentedly beating eggs.  My mom doesn’t look like the psychedelic sort.  More like a Mamas and Papas woman, which she sings as well, especially on Mondays.

“Mom, what are you singing?” I asked after we exchanged ‘good mornings.’

“Hendrix,” my mom said.

My friend, stunned sat down at the table.  I sat with her.

“You’re surprised my mom knows Jimi Hendrix?” I asked.

“I’m surprised your mom is singing when I’m here,” my friend muttered under her breath.

“Why?” I asked.

“Well,” my friend hesitated and then lowered her voice even more, “it’s really bad.”

“Yeah, well, you should hear her sing Burt Bacharach,” I said.

“Oh!” my mom exclaimed with disgust.  “Burt Bacharach!  He has a terrible voice!  He should never record it.”

Commercialism is one thing.  But, when the heart wants to sing, any voice will do.