As a peanut butter and jelly faced kid, I was dragged off to church for various functions while my old man grinned from behind his “I have better things to do”, attitude. It was not an easy task for my mother, but there was some success. While it may be true that initially, it was the grip on my ear that placed me in the choir were I could display my then soprano voice. In time and as my voice changed, the choir became a bit of a refuge both for me, and the Rev. Jay Funk.
The good Reverend knew with me in the choir it was now less likely the church would be destroyed by random idiotic behavior of my brothers and me------and I actually liked to sing. I’m not sure I can identify the pleasure in it all, maybe there were cookies, and I did get to sit up front during services rather than with my balcony bound, ill-behaved brothers and friends, nor next to my disgustingly monotoned father, who on a rare occasion, would attend. He did like to sing like Caruso but was near useless to music---and to religion.
In high school, my greatest desire was to thrash about on any field of completion I could find, the more blood and guts, the better. Classroom performance was similar but less well-behaved. However, I along with some off the other roust-abouts, would inevitably find ourselves in the school choir. There was no ear pulling by then, plenty of girls to ogle, no cookies----- maybe it was a chance to get out of something else I really didn’t want to do, like stay in homeroom where I am sure the teacher , like Rev. Jay Funk, was more than delighted to have us absent.
The homeroom teachers were tired of the marbles rolling on the floor, the birds released to fly about the room and the vulgar bodily noises created from God knows what sources. The choir was again a refuge and a source of accomplishment. There was something about singing as a group that settled us down and even the most ill-behaved would wail away even if the tunes were not one of Elvis’s favorite. If I recall many songs were of the hymnal flavor, but no college drinking songs that I later embraced with distinct vigor, while usually face into a few nice brews.
Through the years, singing Christmas carols, and on occasion, casting forth great songs of the wassail tradition was an exciting event. So recently in the throes of a community tradition, we had the wonderful experience of taking in a community sing at the South New Hope Church. Around fifty folks of all ages and variety gathered to learn a number of songs and to work out the four part harmonies.
Jim put the words in our mouths bit by bit, and the old Negro spirituals echoed through the tall, elegant old church. There was round singing, call and response, and one fine setting where, with women on one side and men on the other, we faced each other and in great Quaker tradition sang a song of praise.
This was followed by South African freedom songs, again, a call and response. The history of the apartheid jails were filtering through the music as a lone elegant soloist sang out the call.
History ran through all of the music, as well as a common thread of time and the emotions of past experiences. The music that filled the sacred halls was uplifting and exciting. After a very quick one and half hours, it was over, but as we finished an encore, and began to walk out, another song just happened to get started. It was if the song, “How can I keep from singing” was playing itself out, for the music continued until we were out the door. There was not one incident of bad behavior from me or anyone. Music still works.
Uplifted, we along with close friends headed out for a Sunday dinner downtown Amherst. While waiting for the waitress to seat us, in the back we could hear what sounded like singing. For a moment we paused, thinking we would sit in a quiet place, away form the chatter and noise, but with little pause, we headed next to the table of barber shoppers feeling we had not had enough.
The silky sounds of tight harmonies drifted over our table and Paul asked if they might do a love song. They stood facing our table and sang a sad song of love. We joined in and closed out the evening with a tune from the romantic 30s. Music, the singing of songs together, is in our blood I suspect, and as Mar said, “This is a day we will never forget.”
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