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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