FINDING EACH OTHER

A visitor came into my bed last night, a most welcome one, albeit she is deceased at least forty years. Why did it take her so long? I don’t know but do know why she stopped by at last. My eyes were drooping and about to close. I was warm, comfortable, watching PBS, semi-engrossed in yet another pitch to order their CDs of the Big Bands of the 40s. 1940s? MY 1940's? Frankie, aged 18, sang to only me, ‘I’ll Never Smile Again’, Tex Beneke, Tommy and Jimmy Dorsey, Harry James, played for 2 hours. Helen O’Connell, Patti Page, Peter Marshallsang. My toes tapped and I sang along, loudly, badly, smiling, even crying a little. I fell asleep without ordering any CDs.

The groups, the vocalists disappeared just as Miss Bresler entered my world, my life, my high school and the music room. Short, shorter than many tenth graders, she turned out to be the tallest of all. She was overweight but her bulges were corseted in. Her deep brown hair was marcelled into tiny flat waves, tight to her scalp. Brown pencil lines filled in her eyebrows. Deep red paint covered her thin red lips. Tiny black button eyes sparkled.

The large music room had no desks. 40 wooden chairs with uncomfortable ladder backs faced another 40 with only a piano, bench, a Victrola and Miss Bresler separating us. The talking, paper clip throwing stopped as soon as the bell rang and our teacher took center stage. Usually we were introduced via waxed recordings to Vivaldi, Strauss, Beethoven. I yawned a lot, learned a lot. Little Miss Bresler endeared herself to 80 students six times a day.

Try out time for the Glee Club and it was decreed that each student, row by row, would sing for Miss Bresler the first line of ‘My Country ‘tis of Thee.’ As she neared my row I uselessly looked for an escape route. Enough ’friends’ had told me many times, I can’t sing. My voice stinks. There was no choice and I did the best I could, shut my mouth and heard Miss Bresler announce in a voice heard round the room, ‘You are an alto. If you must sing, do so softly.’ Nobody else within three rows of me was an ‘alto’. Plague upon me. My adoration of my teacher turned to hatred–but not for long. Her spirit, total devotion to teaching music to us lunkheads was overpowering. Her school Glee Club won first place in the state competition three years in a row.

Graduation was nearing with almost daily music classes after school, all I sang silently. Miss Bresler always smiled a smile of gratitude towards me. Being an honor student, I was assigned a seat on stage, in the very front row, along with thirty others. When the students sitting in the front 15 rows of the audience sang, we 31 students stood, sang along with them. I still followed Miss Bresler’s suggestion and only moved my mouth. There was a somber piece of music about god the omnipresent that was too high for me even if I wanted to sing. Our closing song was a rousing ‘God Bless America’ and I went berserk. I could not restrain my joy, my enthusiasm, my patriotism and I sang with great gusto.

We orderly left the stage. My parents had their eyes on me, hugged me and told me I was the only one who sang with her eyes shining, head held high, pride flowing from my heart and lips. I could see busy Miss Bresler hurriedly trying to reach student, say goodbye, good luck. She reached me while my parents were still with me. ‘Your daughter is a gem. It was a pleasure having her in my class. You should be very proud of her.’ Perhaps she said the same thing to every parent, it didn’t matter. And so she disappeared from my life until she came to stay with me in my bed. What a treat I had, Tex Beneke, Tommy Dorsey and Miss Bresler in one long, but too short night. I’m going to watch PBS, maybe get to meet Carrol Burnett or Lucy, maybe order a CD.

At worst it will be Dick Holloway, the class jerk, the class clown. Beggars can’t be choosers.