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.
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