Posted in A Day In the Life

Joy To The Choir

This is an older post, but one that I had a lot of fun remembering and writing.  I’m sharing it here again in the spirit of the season.  Happy Holidays, friends. Thanks for being a part of my world. All good wishes and good will for the new year!

It wasn’t fair! For two years in a row, Cheryl McAdams got to be Mary and wear the blue veil and hold the baby Jesus doll in the Christmas Pageant. Cheryl McAdams stepped on my feet whenever she could, leaving black marks on my white socks and scuffs on my Mary Janes. When we were lined up, waiting to go into assembly, she would turn around stomp on my one of my feet, laugh, and then turn to the front of the line again like she hadn’t done anything. No way she should have been Mary two years in a row!

I sang in the choir, directed by Mrs. Luella Pearson. Mrs. Pearson had bluish grey hair that she sprayed into a helmet on her head. Her face was heavily powdered. “Like a porcelain doll” my mother said, but I thought she looked more like a powdered donut.

Each year our school, which was a private school, a fact that my mother liked to share with relatives in a way that didn’t make it private at all, put on a Christmas Pageant. The local television station invited the school to the studio and filmed the entire thing. It was the big event leading up to our winter break.

In parkas and scarves, boots and mittens we marched off of the school bus by grade, so bundled against the snow and cold that we looked like a little troop of Michelin men. Volunteer parents and teachers took us to dressing rooms where we were greeted by rows of freshly pressed, neatly hung choir robes. Sizes were found, parkas and boots were stashed and soon each kid had on a black robe with a white collar and a big red bow that tied under the collar.

Mrs. Pearson inspected us, standing in lines just that way that we would when we sang. She walked up and down, heels clicking on the concrete floor and gave us instruction.

“Be like angels,” she said. “Look directly into the camera and smile your best smiles while you are singing. Remember that smiling helps to raise the note so that you do not sing flat.”

Hearing these instructions, I vowed to hold them dear in the hopes that Mrs. Pearson might notice and cast me as Mary next year.

It cannot be easy for mere mortals to deal with 70 first through sixth graders. Our excitement was ramped up by the robust supply of cookies and candy, supplied by the television station. Like fat little puppies at the trough, we practically licked the floor when the sugary treats were gone.

The thing about so much sugar is that it makes kids think of doing things that they normally wouldn’t do. Leonard, a boy from my class, had already eaten several cookies and quite a bit of candy. He regularly got in trouble at school. Leonard could bring class to a raucous stand still. He liked to put his hand in his armpit and then flap it like a wing in such a way as to make loud farting noises, bringing bouts of laughter. Girls were not supposed to laugh, but secretly I thought Leonard was a very funny kid.

Leonard was running around the television studio with the baby Jesus doll that he’d taken from the manger, and using it as a machine gun.

“Leonard, I told you last week, none of this nonsense! Stop all this fussing now. Do you want to do sit in the dressing room by yourself? Do you,” she repeated, bending down and placing her hands on his shoulders. She straightened the large white collar on his choir robe, and fluffed the big red bow.

I was standing right next to them, so I saw all of it happen. Leonard listened to Mrs. Pearson with an intense look on his face and then a little smile. Mrs. Pearson straightened up and smiled back just as Leonard let rip a real fart. Loud, rolling and fragrant. Leonard started to laugh. All of the kids around him started to laugh. Mrs. Pearson turned whiter than the powder on her face and grabbed a handful of her helmet hair so hard that you could hear it crunch in her grip. For the rest of the day she had a dent on one side of her head.

Now Mrs. Pearson had to avoid Leonard because whenever he saw her, he started to laugh uncontrollably which brought on more laughter from other kids, except from the group of girls that included Cheryl McAdams, in her stupid looking blue Mary veil. They stood in their little pod and glared at Leonard.

“He is so rude,” I heard one of them say.

“My mother would never let me play with him,” said another

“Why would you want to?” chimed in Cheryl McAdams.

Finally it was time for the choir to line up and sing. The adults herded us to our places and we stood in two neat rows, kids in the back on risers so that everyone could be seen. Excitement bubbled over as bright lights shined down and a big camera focused on us. Mrs. Pearson stood behind the camera and raised her arms to direct our singing. I remembered what she had said about looking right into the camera and singing with a smile on your face.

We sang the Reader’s Digest condensed version of the Hallelujah Chorus first. Then we sang Away in a Manger. Each time the camera went by I looked right into the lens, and without really meaning to, leaned slightly forward, as I smiled my best smile. What I didn’t know at the time is that none of the other kids followed Mrs. Pearson’s instructions, so they didn’t look right into the camera. They didn’t smile and none of them leaned forward as the camera went by.

As we came to the end of Silent Night, Holy Night, I leaned forward a little too far and fell onto my face taking three other kids out with me. It is to the cameraman’s credit that he did not follow my descent with his lens– and to Mrs. Pearson’s credit that she didn’t put another dent in her helmet hair. As I went down I could hear Leonard laughing uncontrollably.

On Christmas Eve my mother, my aunts, some cousins sat in our living room and watched the Christmas Pageant on television. My aunts were laughing and calling me a little ham. I scowled my best eight-year-old scowl and said, “I did exactly what Mrs. Pearson told us to do and I was the only one.”

“You were definitely the only one sweetheart,” said one of the aunts. With arms folded across my chest I continued to watch as I tumbled over the three kids that became part of the great Silent Night fall. Leonard could be heard laughing in the background.   The screen faded to black and then to our principal, with a sick look on her face wished everyone a “Very Merry Christmas and a Good Night.”

Somewhere in another part of the city, a powdered Luella Pearson, replete with helmet hair was watching the Christmas Pageant too, and she was on her third martini.

Posted in Comedy, Tragedy and What the F...?

Never Again!

iStock_000007750112XSmallFirst off I should tell you that this story takes place in 1972. It’s important to note because people were doing all kinds of new and strange things in the late 60’s and early 70’s. The boundaries of consciousness were being pushed and that is one thing, but in many instances people who thought they were pushing the boundaries of consciousness were really just pushing the boundaries of good taste, and that is really quite another.

Tucked into a quiet Topanga Canyon, then home to artists, musicians, spiritual seekers and rabid vegetarians, was a place called Elysian Fields. It sat on several acres of scrub oak and meadow and was replete with tennis courts, a swimming pool, massage facilities and plenty of outdoor sitting area where one could enjoy the beauty of the natural world around them. It was the 1970’s version of a spa, except for one little detail—it was a nudist camp, a naturalist preserve…nobody had any clothes on.

I was barely 20 when my then boyfriend suggested that we visit Elysian and go au natural for a day, allowing for the freedom of being unrestrained by clothes. Twenty makes you think of stupid things to do like no other age I have ever experienced. Spending a day around other people with no clothes on—what could be so bad? We were young. We were free. This was the new age and so boyfriend and I packed up our car, though there wasn’t much to pack inasmuch as we did not need swim suits or tennis clothes, just a pair of Adidas, a racket and a couple of towels. Second thing to note: we were fully clothed on the drive to Elysian Fields. Fortunately, stupidity in this instance, was thwarted and no one was placed in the position of having to explain how free we were to the California Highway Patrol..

Nudity wasn’t exactly new to me. I sometimes sunned in the back yard sans top…but here at Elysian Fields, where the sign at the front desk read “clothing optional,” I felt like naked on naked. Adding other people to the mix was just weird. The people walking around without clothes didn’t really seem all that free; more like self-conscious about the fact that they were naked and pretending that they were “free.”

Boyfriend and I signed in and headed toward the tennis court where some others were playing too. I don’t really want to describe the things that flop around and smack you in the arms, face and legs when you are playing tennis without any clothes on. It was the weirdest tennis game I ever played—naked and absolutely nothing sexy, let alone free, about it.

To allow ourselves the full experience of being so friggen’ free, which was now beginning to feel somewhat annoying, boyfriend and I found our way to the pool, which at least seemed a little more natural, given that water allows for some cover. Diving boards provide a similar “please don’t let me see that flopping around” purview as playing tennis, albeit blessedly briefer. So, the pool experience was not any better really than naked tennis.

Then reality hit: with the exception of boyfriend and I, most of the Elysian Fields clientele appeared to be over the age of 50. Now 50 is not a bad age, but it is definitely an age where clothing optional behavior should be limited to ones own private house. 50 in this instance felt creepy as opposed to free. The realization of clientele age and images of tennis that neither boyfriend or I could get out of our heads, led us to make a departure swifter than initially imagined. In the dressing room at the front desk, I was never so grateful to put on clothes.

I like clothes. If I want to feel free, I take off my shoes. It is one of those 1970-type of experiences that makes for a good story now…but I tell you what—never again!



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