Thursday, March 19, 2015

FOND MEMORIES OF SPRING FESTIVAL







By Heidi Johnson-Wright

A Cleveland winter is a brutal thing. When the crocuses finally poke their heads out, the sun reappears and you no longer feel as if you’re living in a Bergman film, it’s time to celebrate. At my elementary school, we marked this time each year with Spring Festival, an evening of song and dance put on for the parents by the fourth and fifth graders. One morning as I washed my hands in the girls’ restroom, I could hear the fifth graders’ resplendent voices through the wall. They were in the gymnasium practicing songs from the Broadway musical, Godspell.


Miss D was our young, newly hired music teacher. She was warm, energetic and in tune with the interests of kids. She was the diametrical opposite of the old battle axe who had previously held the job and had made us sing such jammin’ tunes as The Happy Wanderer and Drill, Ye Tarriers, Drill. I was not sorry to see her put out to pasture.

It was part of Miss D’s job to select the music for the festival, teach it to us and direct the entire production. You wouldn’t normally expect music from a show about the life of Christ to be included in a production at a public school, but Godspell had a decidedly hippie bent to it. Somehow it all balanced out. Plus, there would be a wide array of music, including some Top 40 pop tunes. The choice song and dance numbers went to the fifth graders, the lesser material to us lowly fourth graders. Regardless of which grade you were in, rehearsals meant less time spent on regular classwork. Nobody had any arguments with that.

To be selected for one of the jazz dance numbers was the dream of nearly every fourth grade girl. I wanted to be a dancer so bad, I felt it in my bones. But it was my bones that betrayed me. I learned the steps and made my best effort at the try-outs, but I’m sure the pain showed on my face. And I was probably too big a risk to be selected. If I had a flare the night of the show, it would screw everything up. So no sequined and tasseled jumpsuit for me. I was assigned the job of usherette. I would greet parents at the gym door and hand out programs.

Every day with the arthritis was a struggle, but my spirits were lifted by the advent of spring. Plus, the upcoming show gave me something to think about, to focus on. I wouldn’t dance nor have a featured solo, yet I was excited at the prospect of performing for my parents. I was sure they would be impressed.

Then my dad won a trip to Europe, his prize for being named salesman of the year. He and my mom would fly to New York City and be honored at a dinner at the Italian Rifle Club by the corporate big wigs. They would stay one night at the Plaza Hotel, where rooms cost $80 a night! They’d fly to Germany and take a week-long boat cruise down the Rhine River. Naturally, this would take place the same week as the Spring Festival.

I was disappointed, but somewhat heartened when I found out that my mom’s parents would come to stay with me and my sister that week. My grandparents were quiet and easygoing. They never fought or had mood swings. They’d buy me whatever I wanted at the grocery store. I imagined a week of nothing but pizza, ice cream and Archway cookies.

I came home from school the day of the big event and had an early dinner. I changed into my fourth grade idea of an usherette’s uniform: a white blouse and navy blue pleated skirt. We had to return to school early, before the families arrived.

School buildings after hours always feel a bit creepy, but there was a happy vibe in the air that night. They corralled us in our classrooms while Miss D made last minute adjustments with the in-crowd: the dancers and featured singers. I sat at my desk while three boys groused about how the show made them miss that week’s episode of The Six Million Dollar Man. They proclaimed it a rip-off, but consoled themselves by attempting to peel coats of Elmer’s Glue, intact, from the palms of their hands.

Soon we were herded backstage to take our places. Because I was one of the shortest kids in class, I was put in the first row of the chorus. This meant I would have to kneel down and sit on my heels during almost the entire show. In rehearsals, I had struggled with the pain it caused, but never let it show, nor even contemplated being excused from sitting like that. Now as we took our places, just moments before curtain time, I felt a panic rising within me. Standing at the door passing our programs had made my legs stiffen up. For a couple seconds, I felt tears well up, angry that the arthritis might rob me of this special evening, as it had begun robbing me of so much already. But somehow on cue, I descended to my knees with the other front row shorties without hesitation.

Throughout that evening, we smiled and sang Wilkommen from Cabaret and Hello Muddah, Hello Faddah and the other numbers on key, all the while following Miss D’s direction to the letter. When we rose to form a chain encircling the gym for the closing number – the O-Jay’s Love Train – my legs ached liked crazy. But when I saw the smile on my grandmother’s face as she clapped to the beat, I forgot all about it.

The following year, we fifth graders got to sing Paper Lace’s The Night Chicago Died. It was totally boss, but I think my first Spring Festival will always be my favorite.

http://earthboundtomboy.blogspot.com/2015/03/hello-muddah-hello-faddah-fond-memories.html

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