THE LAST NOEL

Tonight, watching the Disney World Annual Christmas Processional with  hundreds of voices singing Christmas carols I couldn't help but think of my musical night of the Bacon School Holiday Concert. I played the trumpet.  I had to play in our school band because my mother insisted that I was not going to waste her hard earned $2 dollars a week for my trumpet lesson.  I practiced that blaring for 8 years until I went out for high school football, put it down and never picked it up again - but that's another story.

This story is about Miss N, our maiden junior high music teacher, who ventured from the shadows into the spotlight, to produce her winter musical extravaganzas for adoring parents.  (Miss N always wanted to lead a professional choral group touring the capitals of the world - but like many of us, life doesn’t always work out like dreams do.  After college she ended up playing scratchy records of ancient symphonies to kids who preferred rock-n-roll. But this was her one night to shine and her ensemble was as ready as we would ever be.

The choir was made up of about 20 girls picked for their angelic sounds and 7 boys whose changing voices made them baritones on some days and tenors on others. The "orchestra" was 6 trumpets, two trombones, one sax and tuba and Mary Jane, the math shark, on violin which the trumpets succeeded in drowning out.  My pal David “played” the snare drum, triangle, cymbals and anything else one could play by hitting it.  Miss N accompanied us on the baby grand piano with one hand as she dramatically waved a two foot long baton with the other.  

Showtime finally arrived, a blessing as we would not have to practice another Christmas song until next October.  Backstage everyone was nervous. We could hear the murmuring of the audience on the other side of the heavy curtain as the auditorium filled up.  Our elementary school auditorium doubled as a gym so a faint aroma of musty sweat socks was part of the festivities mixed with the scent of  hot chocolate seeping in from the cafeteria across the hall.  The band members had been ordered to dress in white shirts or blouses and dark pants or skirts.  Everyone complied except Ralph who was wearing the old sweater he wore every day. The choir was adorned, head to toe, in heavy robes borrowed from the local Methodist church.  After a brief speech of welcome from Mrs. McC, our always jovial and matronly Principal. Mr. Hays, the school custodian, hit the lights and he opened the velour traveler. Ms. N  entered stage left wearing an antique black floor length gown.  She whispered, “Ok children do your best…and trumpets keep it down please.”

And so, it began. The band kicked off our holiday salute with a jaunty rendition of Deck the Halls followed by the choir singing a Gregorian Chant from circa 1250 AD.  Our program alternated between the band playing fun holiday songs and the choir singing its way through the ages of music, songs that have not been heard for centuries – in Latin, French, Armenian and Gaelic.  The printed program was four pages long!  By the second hour of our musical marathon the rustle of the restless audience (except for sleeping fathers) sitting on hard wood chairs was louder than the band.  My upper lip was like a raw hamburger after playing high note C sharps and B flats.  And all of us were feeling the intensity of the 500-watts of stage lights overhead.  

And then it happened - Before Ms. N could turn to the next page of her thick music book, one of the choir members on the back row of the choir riser fainted from either the heat or fatigue and slumped in a heap on the floor.  Our principal, always at the ready, raced from her perch in the wings and gushed a quick “Thank you children for another fabulous evening of festive cheer and every parent (as was their duty) applauded long and loud – and I'm still not sure if it was for our musical skills or because our performance was finally over.  Then the room cleared as everyone rushed to the cafeteria for free refreshments provided by the PTA moms.

As for Ms. N, she remained standing alone on the empty stage looking like a deflated Christmas lawn decoration.  As I headed to the post concert party I heard her muttering as she gathered up her reams of music sheets - “But we had another dozen songs to go…what a shame...we practiced them so diligently…we never even got to the Victorian era.”

That year there was no Spring Concert.  Ms. N never returned after Christmas vacation.  I learned years later that she eloped with a professional bar band sax player from Atlantic City.