It’s May, the month we honor the mothers in our lives. When we think of our moms, some of us naturally picture her in the kitchen, elbow deep in flour, making one of her mouth-watering dishes. But not all moms were adept in the culinary arts, as Roz Nelson reminds us in this heart-warming story. While Roz acknowledges her mother’s many wonderful qualities, cooking was definitely not one of them. This story will surely make you smile. 

Recipe for Heartburn
by Roslyn Nelson

The backyard of the kosher butcher’s shop was lined with cages containing live chickens, ducks, and turkeys. One Sunday morning when I was about five, my mother took me with her to buy a chicken. Weekdays she worked; Saturday is the Jewish Sabbath and, of course, on that day the shop was closed. So Sunday it was.

My mother was not reticent about the chicken she wanted. It had to be big and plump. She toured the cages carefully, oblivious of the cackles and quacks and crowing that fascinated me. She wouldn’t let the butcher talk her into any bird that wasn’t fat. Planting her stought five-foot frame firmly in front of him, she told him, “No, not that one, this one.” She pointed to the fattest bird in the cages. It was in the days before cholesterol was a household word, and fatty was equated with juicy and delicious. I had to hold back tears as the beefy butcher opened the cage, seized the squawking chicken by its legs, and held it upside down as it flapped its wings in a desperate attempt to escape.

I could not, could not watch as he beheaded that chicken, cut off its feet, and eviscerated it. A shudder went through me with the sound of each chop. But I did watch and was mesmerized by the two women who sat all day plucking the feathers and singeing the stubborn ones that remained. The pungent odor of burnt feathers assaulted our nostrils. “Chicken Flickers” was what my mother called the women.

When we returned home, my mother set the gas burners alight and, holding the chicken over them, singed and removed the remaining pin feathers. With all that trouble, one might have expected a Lucullian feast when the bird was cooked. But, while my mother was a kind and good-natured woman, she was also, unfortunately, among the world’s worst cooks. Woody Allen jokes that his mother had a deflavorizing machine. I think my mother invented it.

I could say in her defense that she worked long hours as a seamstress, back in the Depression days, when women normalled stayed at home. We needed the extra cash desperately, however, and so each and every morning my mother headed out the door by seven a.m. for the long trolley ride to the garment factory, and didn’t return until six o’clock.

Neatness was not her long-suit either: as she undressed after work, she flung clothing around on chairs and tables. Dressed, her bra strap peeked out from her cotton housedress, her slip hung below her hem, her heavy oxford shoes listed to the sides. Important papers and photographs lay jumbled together in a drawer, along with her underwear.

Yet, she was strong on cleanliness. Every Saturday, she scrubbed the linoleum-covered floors, their pseudo-Turkish patterns long since erased by foot traffic. Then she washed the family laundry in the stone kitchen tubs, rubbing the clothes with the brown bar of Fels Naptha soap on a corrugated wood-framed scrubbing board, and hanging them out to dry. Afterwards, she polished the coal stove, and the exposed brass pipes under the sink.

If she was short on intellectual curiosity, she was long on common sense. As a child, it was my father’s intellect that I admired, but as an adult I realized that it was she who was the backbone, she who kept the family together under trying circumstances.

During the week, cooking the family dinner fell to my older sister. She faithfully followed my mother’s recipe for chicken soup. The chicken was boiled for hours with a five-cent bundle of herbs and parsnips that went by the immigrant parlance “soupen greens.” I secretly thought of it as boiled rubber, swimming in a fatty sea.

My father, who was something of a gourmand, loved Beluga caviar, which sold for seventy-nine cents an ouce (a great extravagance then), and smoked sturgon and pickled herring, and ate them often, in spite of our poverty. But for some unfathomable reason, he also loved boiled chicken and chicken soup, the fattier the better, and so it was on the menu two, and sometimes three, nights a week.

I simply could not get it down, and at the age of about eight, I refused to eat it at all and often made myself a supper of cottage cheese or sour cream and banana, or even chocolate wafers and milk.

My mother prepared the vegetables for the meal. I can barely make that word vegetables plural. What we had were peas and carrots, carrots and peas, either canned or boiled to a mush. I was in my teens and eating in other places before I discovered that vegetables were varied and could taste wonderful.

Our menus didn’t have much variety: the soup, of course, fried veal cutlets, which tasted OK but were guaranteed to produce heartburn a few hours later because of the fat, and a shortcut version of blintzes, in which the cheese mixture, instead of being wrapped in a crepe, was splaced between soda crackers, dipped in egg and, of course, fried. On rare occasions there was pot roast, loaded with fat, the way father liked it, and even more rarely, steak, soaked kosher-style in salt and water to remove the blood. It was so tough that stitched up, it would have made a very servicable briefcase. Even though we weren’t observant Jews, it was the only way my mother knew how to prepare it.

On Saturdays we had the best meal of the week. A trip to the Jewish deli produced corned beef and pastrami or salami, hard-crusted rye bread with caraway seeds, kosher sour pickles, and invariably, a can of Heinz vegetarian beans that my mother heated in the unopened can, label and all, in boiling water on the gas range. To this day I don’t know why the can didn’t explode. To give her her due, my mother made cole slaw and potato salad to go with the meal, which were excellent, because she had worked in a Jewish deli years before and learned how to do it right.

Every now and then, on a Sunday, my mother would make an apple pie. The crust could have anchored a battleship, and she frequently forgot to put sugar over the apples. Knowing my penchant for sweets of all kinds, she was always puzzled when I turned it down.

Long after my father died, when my mother had remarried and came to visit me in California, she drew me aside after the second dinner I had prepared and said, “Listen, don’t make such fancy meals. You’ll spoil Louie.” Louie was her second husband and hardly a gourmet.

When I look back now, my nostalgia is for a kind and generous mother, warm and loving, hard-working and undemanding. But I have to admit that I have no fond memories of, or longing for, her meals. Well, maybe the potato salad and cole slaw. They were the best I’ve ever had.

This week’s student story was written by Pamela Jones, a talented writer who has attended my class for some time.  Pamela was raised during the fifties and early sixties by a Methodist minister father and a cultured, intelligent mother who stressed education and personal achievement. In this delightful story, Pamela re-creates a cherished memory, her family’s annual two-week vacation to the New Jersey shore. Her narrative reaches wider than family events to capture how the developing Civil Rights movement changed their vacation experience over time. Read on and see for yourself.

Destination Vacation
by Pamela Jones

The moist wind slapped my face and ruffled my bangs. The fishy ocean scent invaded the car as Mom cranked down the passenger window of our beloved 1955 two-toned-green Bel Air Chevrolet.

“Ah, there’s nothing like a cool Cape May breeze!” Mom exclaimed.

Ed, my older brother, nicknamed Brother, replied playfully, “Is that right?”

Junior, my oldest brother, and I giggled at the remark as Mom turned and glared at us through squinted eyes and a tight face. Though exasperated, she revealed a faint trace of delight in her son’s humor.

For more than two hours, our family had rolled along the two lanes of South Jersey’s back roads from Lawnside, our home, to the southernmost tip of the state, to Cape May Peninsula, where the Delaware Bay meets the Atlantic Ocean. Of course, the 1954 completion of the Garden State Parkway offered a faster route, but the toll costs were a deterrent considering Mom and Dad’s ministerial and teaching salaries. As Dad drove, he enjoyed Mom feeding him a constant stream of Life Saver Crystal Mints and freshly roasted peanuts purchased from the roadside wagon in Pennsauken. Scrunched in the back seat, my brothers and I were tired and had finally fallen asleep after miles of Mom’s Bible reading, radio listening, joke telling, and repetitious whining of stop it, move over, and who broke wind? Brother hated the smell of those Crystal Mints, and I loved blowing the fragrance in his face just to watch his reaction. To this day, the smell of mints nauseates him.

The blast of fresh sea air signaled our approach to the Cape May Bridge, the only land entrance and exit to this seashore town. Once a year for the last two weeks of August and the Labor Day weekend, our family vacationed in Cape May, for this was the home of our Nana, my mother’s mother, Eleanor.

“Oh look, the drawbridge is up,” shouted Mom.

“It’s a good thing we’re not in a hurry,” remarked Brother.

“I can’t see anything sitting in the middle,” I protested, straining for a better view of the separated road reaching like a gigantic slide into the orange sky.

“Well, why don’t you take some tea and see,” retorted Brother, referring to a slogan from the Lipton Tea radio commercial.

As soon as the bridge lowered, the gaping hole in the road closed and we cruised over the cracked seam in Highway 109. Below we sighted fishing boats searching the harbor for their dock. To the right was the wharf and home of two fish markets and sport and business fishing crafts. On previous vacations, Dad greeted the rising sun decked in his red plaid shirt, khaki pants, and straw hat to fish from the docks. Now, if by chance he caught nothing, he would visit the fish market and purchase fresh white filleted flounder. By the time we were out of bed, Dad had returned and prepared fried or broiled fish, yellow roe often included,  creamy grits, and toast for our family breakfast. At least once during our vacation, Dad would splurge and treat himself to deep sea fishing. His catch of mackerel and flounder stocked our upright freezer for the winter.

As we descended the bridge, the curves of Washington Street lay ahead, lined with its beautiful trees dressed in green, providing shade and elegance for the historic two-story Victorian homes. After a mile, we turned into Franklin Street with churches on three corners, and on the fourth corner, the Volunteer Fire Department, which sounded an alarming horn each day at noon and for emergencies. Right in the middle of the block was Cape May High School, which Mom attended in the 1920s. Across the street from the school was Nana’s house, our vacation home. The only other house on the block was the parsonage for the AME church.

Nana maintained her side of this Victorian duplex while her four siblings occupied the other side when it was not a summer rental. Their father purchased several pieces of Cape May real estate after migrating from Virginia to Cape May in the early 1900s. The house had no central heat on either side, but Nana had a potbellied stove in the dining room with a fat stove pipe extending to a grate upstairs. In the kitchen was a huge wood-burning stove for cooking, an ice box requiring a block of ice, and a wringer washing machine. As our home was upgraded with modern appliances, Mom and Dad did the same for Nana’s home.

I’ll never forget Nana’s introduction to the RCA black and white table model television. The Ed Sullivan Show was on one Sunday evening and a gentleman of color was tap dancing with leaps, splits and phenomenal acrobats.

“I see you, son. Oh yes, I see you!” Nana cried.

“Nana, he can’t see you or hear you,” I explained.

“Oh yes, he can,” she insisted.

“No, Nana, he really can’t,” Junior added.

Then Ed Sullivan asked, “Wasn’t he great?”

“Yes, he sure was. You see, he can hear me and see me.”

Nana was an exceptional cook, preparing doughnuts, macaroons, rhubarb, junket, and tapioca when she lived with us during the winter. But during the summer she was a cook at the Girl and Friendly Boarding House. During our vacation, I walked the five blocks with her to work and watched her prepare breakfast for the women residents. Then she allowed me to scramble eggs for my breakfast on the kitchen’s wood-burning stove. Following our special time, I strolled home, hearing the gentle ocean breeze whisper to all of the trees that formed a thick canopy over the streets. It was hard to believe the beach was just a few blocks away. With each stride I hoped our family would get to the beach before 2:00. It never happened. Going to Nana’s was a working vacation for Mom and Dad, because they always had a remodeling project that ended about 3:00.

When we arrived at the beach, there was usually ample parking with reduced rates and choice spots on the sand. Though the beaches were racially segregated, there were benefits. Summer after summer, we knew we would see our friends on our three hundred yards designated as the “colored” beach. Two rows of parallel rocks jutting out into the ocean made perfect borders that we never crossed. There were always two lifeguards of color, usually teachers, who were assured summer jobs. There was always sufficient parking with a gentleman of color hired as the parking attendant. We had a friend who eventually married a young man she met on the beach. Though college students worked at various places in Cape May and Wildwood, they all convened at the same beach at some point during the summer. The signing of the Civil Rights Act by President Lyndon B. Johnson in 1964 prohibited segregation, but our beach remained “colored.” Gradually, others began to expand to our beach, and by the 1970s, all of the exclusive benefits disappeared forever.

Evenings at Nana’s were spent on the citronella-lit porch sitting in the green metal rocking chairs battling mosquitoes invited by the humid summer climate. The city sprayed weekly, and Mom permitted no lights at bedtime. Dad would even sing his mosquito song in his deep baritone voice:

“Squito him fly high, Squito him fly low. Squito better not land on me or Squito will fly no mo’. ”

Despite the efforts, the mosquito that buzzed in my ear during the night managed to target my warm body, leaving my skin peppered and itchy in the morning.

Sunday meant church. Only at Nana’s could we choose outside of our denomination. My brothers and I liked the Baptist church. The choir sang Negro spirituals and gospel songs with such fervor and harmony. I remember visiting all three of the churches of color, but Dad and Mom always worshipped at the beautiful but poorly attended United Methodist church of her childhood.

Cape May was our annual vacation destination. Boardwalks graced the white sandy beaches; sticky salt water taffy and crab imperial reigned; and the Atlantic Ocean ruled, roared and brought rest, relaxation, and recreation to five generations in our family.        

You’ll love this story, dear readers. Dawn has written a number of stories as class assignments, but had never written anything directly about her parents. When I called this to her attention, she produced this wonderful piece. Maybe it will give you ideas for a story you could write about your parents’ relationship.

IT’S NICE TO KNOW
by Dawn Peck

In the musical, “Fiddler on the Roof,” there is a duet between Tevye, the bombastic traditionalist dairyman, and his practical, no-nonsense wife, Golde, in which he asks her plaintively, “Golde – do you love me?”  She is amazed, doesn’t know what to say – after all, they’ve been married 25 years, have three daughters they’re about to marry off, have survived trouble and joy together.  What kind of a question is that?  Well, that’s pretty much how I would have reacted if anyone had ever asked me, “Do your parents love each other?  How do you know?”  Unless their parents are very demonstrative or their home is completely dysfunctional, most children never give it a thought. In fact, once they’re past the age of believing in the stork, they’re usually convinced that they and their siblings were created by some form of immaculate conception.  After all, THEIR parents would never do THAT!

I definitely fit in with most children and completely missed all the signs over the years that showed just how my parents felt about each other.  I never knew until much later that the 1928 Hudson sedan in the garage was theirs because my mother realized how important that new car was to my father when they got married even though he tried to insist that furniture for their first home together should top the list. “Why don’t we just rent a furnished place for a while until we find just what we want?” she suggested. Yes, she wanted new furnishings to go with their new marriage, but she knew how he felt about a new car and she wasn’t going to have him feel that he’d had to give up something right at the start.

I missed the fact that my father, in Detroit, had completely cut off contact with his sister across the bridge in Windsor, Canada, for nearly 15 years because she and my mother had disagreed.  (I have no idea what caused the split.)

I never saw how my mother saved my father’s pride one Depression Thanksgiving when money was too tight to afford a turkey. “Well,” said Mother sturdily, “it’s not OUR holiday anyway.  Let’s just have what we like.” As soon as money was more plentiful though, we “liked” turkey.

Except in the very worst weather, my father walked just over a mile to work at the Hudson Motor Car Company.  In the early days, when he got there his job often kept him outside most of the day too. In winter when he got home, no matter what the time, there were warm slippers by the front door and the heavy dark armchair pulled up and turned around to face the hot air register, standing in for a fireplace.  While my mother finished getting dinner ready, there Dad would sit with his Camel cigarettes, a nice hot cup of tea and his copy of the Detroit Free Press, completely content.  (It was always the Free Press.  The Detroit News was deemed too reactionary and the Detroit Times too full of sensationalist nonsense.) In summer, along with the cigarettes and newspaper, there were always ice tea and a folding deck chair ready on the porch. 

After dinner, my father almost always washed the dishes.  As soon as I was big enough to think I was helping, he’d tie a dishtowel around my neck to neatly cover my dress. “Come on, luv,” he’d say, “let’s do some pearl diving. Give your mother a chance to put her feet up and read the paper in peace.” It never occurred to me that he was probably one of the very few men of his generation who washed the dishes without there being a family emergency and never felt demeaned by doing “women’s work.”

My father wasn’t absent-minded; often he just didn’t pay attention to where he had left things. “Duck, where are my car keys?” (They were always his keys; my mother didn’t drive.)  “Have you seen my glasses?”  “Now where did the sports page go?” 

“Honestly,” she’d reply, “Fonce Baker, I’m going to call you ‘Where is it.’” She was the only one who called him “Fonce,” short for Alphonsus, his middle name, and she always said it with amused affection.  And she always found the missing object for him. I think now it was almost a game.

Did my parents ever fight?  NO!  I honestly never even heard them argue, though, being ordinary people, not saints, they may have saved some firm words for when I wasn’t around.  They simply talked things through and cooperated on what was best for everyone.  If something was really important to one of them, the other gave in because seeing their “better half” happy was more important than winning.

We got our first radio when I was about six and it must have been a major unnecessary expense at the time.  My mother urged my father to go ahead and get it, but although my father eagerly listened to every baseball game from April to September, I never once heard my mother tune in to a soap opera or “Ladies Hour.” We did, however, listen to the King’s speech to the British Empire every Christmas morning, a tradition that all the family on both sides of the Atlantic could participate in together. Canada and Detroit were so close there that we routinely listened to each other’s radio stations and it certainly came in handy.

They led a quiet life, didn’t go in for clubs or parties. Only two other couples, plus my godmother and her family in Windsor, were close friends and they didn’t live nearby. With my dad Catholic and my mother Protestant, they chose not to have close ties with either church in case the other spouse didn’t feel comfortable. They didn’t visit Dad’s sister and her family in Windsor until one of her sons, Raymond, was reported killed in the Dieppe raid in France and we went to the memorial service. However, there were joyous celebrations there when Raymond was later reported not dead but missing, then a P.O.W. in Germany, and more celebration when he finally came home. Even with a war, their lives were thankfully uneventful, with all the relatives on both sides of the family surviving the war in England and service throughout the world without injury.

They took a yearly vacation traveling together, with me along when I was a child, of course. My mother’s ambition was to at least have stepped foot in every state before she went “home.” They made it to all the states but neither one ever got back to England. They played canasta together when that was popular, and when my dad, who loved horseracing, retired, they went to the races together and played his “system,” which at least allowed him to break even.  However, when, at the age of 74, they moved into a “55-and-older” condominium complex, my father enjoyed his weekly poker games in the clubhouse and my mother joined the local chapter of the Daughters of the British Empire and enjoyed their monthly meetings. After all, they were comfortable retirees with plenty of time to relax at last, not hermits.

But did they love each other? Shortly before his death, my father reached out to me one day, held my arm tightly and said, “Luv, when I’m gone…..don’t let your mother be lonely.”

Well, of course not, I thought, and I really tried. But I finally realized that even an only daughter and four well-loved grandchildren couldn’t replace the loved one who was gone. They hadn’t had clubs and parties because they didn’t need clubs and parties. They hadn’t had many friends because they didn’t need many friends. They were complete in their own world.

But did they love each other? Well, to paraphrase Tevye and Golde as they ended their duet, “It doesn’t change a thing, but even so, after all these years, it’s nice to know.”

How often have we taken an action knowing at the time that our lives will never be the same? Nevertheless, we step into the future, out of bravery, adventure, necessity, sacrifice, love–or a combination of these motives. Hal Prange’s account of his parents’ decision to leave their Arkansas roots to follow their kids to California captures the heart-wrenching drama of that moment, one they knew at the time would change their lives forever. You can learn so much about a family through a single story told with sensitivity and attention to detail.  Read on to see why Hal’s story was a favorite in class last week…

Leaving Eden
by Hal Prange

Dad didn’t want to leave. He didn’t want to at all. He didn’t want to say goodbye to Prange Hill. Prange Hill had been his “Garden of Eden” for fifty-two years. Dad’s father, my grandfather, had built our two-story home on the highest bluff in Crocketts Bluff, Arkansas, on the White River. Two of Dad’s older brothers and an infant sister were buried in the front yard of the home site. The quarter-section was occupied by the house, the Prange Store, the German Lutheran Church, and a large barn.

As much as Mom loved her life there, she was anxious to relocate to Southern California. The seven oldest of my eight siblings, upon graduating from high school, had moved to Los Angeles to find better opportunities for employment than Depression-era Arkansas had to offer. Mom had high hopes that her children’s chances of living a more prosperous life than realized by her and Dad would be greater in L.A. In 1944, only four people remained at home—Mom, Dad, my fourteen-year-old sister, Betty, and me, ten years of age.

Dad loved his family. He knew that with seven of the family living in California, his life in Arkansas would soon end. He knew he would be pressured by Mom into following the trail that had been blazed by the kids. In his heart, he didn’t wish to go, but he was not vocal in expressing opposition to the idea of going. Mom and Dad dedicated three frenetic months preparing to leave on their life’s greatest adventure. The mighty heart of Prange Hill was soon to be quieted.

On March 3^rd, just as the sun was introducing itself over the scenic “Hole-in-the-Wall,” a local landmark created by centuries of water erosion, the four of us piled into Dad’s white Ford V-8 business coupe. Dad steered through the narrow front gate alongside the Prange Mercantile Store, turning west onto Hill Road, heading into a wholly new life. After driving only a minute, Mom, sitting in the passenger seat, screamed, “Dad, pull over to the side of the road.”

Dad had no idea what prompted the earsplitting command.“What’s the trouble, Edna? Did we forget something?”     

When she didn’t answer, Dad turned the car to the side of the gravel road and slowed to a stop. At that spot on the road, by turning our heads to the right and looking to the north, an opening in the woods provided a view of Prange Hill. There was the family house, Dad’s store, our church and the barn. The entire panoply of family history was vivid in the new morning sun.

Mom explained, “Pete, I think we should all take one last look. I know that God wants us to follow the kids, but He may also choose not to allow us to see the place again.”

Can anyone imagine the thoughts residing in the deepest recesses of my mother’s bosom as she surveyed her former home? I think she was remembering giving birth to nine babies in the downstairs bedroom of the old house. She may have resurrected memories of many crises that had taken place there, but I trust that she also was recalling many pleasurable events.

No doubt, Mom struggled with the forces of “go” and the forces of “stay.” I’m convinced that her prayers at that moment, as she was swimming in a river of memories, were that she and Dad were doing the right thing for their children.

Sitting on the jump seats of the Ford V-8, my sister and I saw tears welling up in our mom’s eyes. I suspect Dad was cognizant of Mom’s tears, but he didn’t want her to know that he knew. As Mom gave the old place a visual scrutiny, she likely noted an eerie change on Prange Hill. No children were at play. Mutt, our family dog, was not chasing our laying hens. The silence was deafening.

Dad did not turn to look at what had been his. He gripped the steering wheel with a callous-forming firmness. His left hand was at ten o’clock on the steering wheel, and his right hand was at two o’clock.  The veins on the back of his neck protruded, and his eyes were fixed straight ahead.

Dad was on the cusp of a new chapter of life, which was to be a chapter of doubt, uncertainty, and fear. He probably didn’t look at the old home place as we were stopped on the Hill Road, because he doubted if he could focus on the past and also accept the future.

After two or three minutes had elapsed, Mom said quietly, “Pete, I’m ready to go.”

Dad responded, “Yeah, we gotta high-tail it. We’ve got 2000 hard miles to put behind us.”

He put the vehicle in gear, raced the engine, popped the clutch, and threw loose gravel several feet, as the two synthetic rubber tires fought for traction.

Mom and Dad lived in L.A. until their deaths. Mom made many trips back to Crocketts Bluff.  Dad, on the other hand, lived in California for seventeen years and chose to never go home. Dad knew that if he went back, even once, he would stay, or live here in misery.

If you’ve been reading regularly, you’ll know that I’ve been preaching DETAILS in my classes this term–encouraging my students to move away from general, forgettable descriptions to more carefully crafted, specific portraits. This week’s story was written by Rhona Villanueva, who was born in Estonia , fled with her family to Germany at the outset of WWII, to Chile after the war, and finally ended up in California, where she has lived with her husband for many years. She is fluent in multiple languages and speaks and writes English like a native–actually, better than a native most of the time. Her story, about participating in an operetta when she was in high school in Chile, sparkles with details that make it memorable. Rhona is a diligent student, always working to improve her writing. This story is one of her best.

The Gypsy Baron
by Rhona Villanueva

 “Hurry, go to your assigned spots, take your positions,” a hushed voice urged us on. “We are about to start,” the same voice continued. The lighting on the stage grew dim. Feet shuffled back and forth, clothing rustled and throats were cleared. Here and there a last-minute whisper, a cough, then silence. We didn’t even dare breathe. My heart pumped hard and fast and sounded loud in my ears.

On the other side of the crimson velvet curtain separating us from the audience, the orchestra was getting ready. Musicians fine-tuned their instruments, positioned chairs and music stands to their liking, and took a last glance at the score to refresh their memories and reassure themselves. Muffled sounds of a few notes and scales played on a variety of instruments reached us behind the curtain.

Suddenly there was applause. In my imagination I could see the conductor, dressed elegantly in tails, white dress shirt and bowtie, approach his podium in his black patent leather shoes, bow toward the audience and then turn to face the orchestra. The applause ebbed down, he raised his hand holding the baton, and the overture began.

It was opening night of The Gypsy Baron by Johann Strauss.

Three months earlier our music teacher called several of us girls as we were leaving the classroom.

“Wait, I have to ask you something. An impresario is staging an operetta in German, The Gypsy Baron to be exact. Would you be interested in being part of the chorus? They need about ten to twelve German-speaking girls.”

We looked at each other in disbelief. “You mean we would sing on a stage in front of an audience?”

“That is exactly what I mean. We will practice two, three times a week after class right here in this room. The soprano will come from Germany, a tenor from Buenos Aires, and the others are local people. We have over two months until the opening on September 20, in the opera house right here in Santiago. It will be fun. Do you want to do it? Do you want to participate?”

 We looked at each other and without hesitation nodded affirmatively. And with that nod my singing career began.

We practiced for several weeks with our teacher at the piano. He was a middle-aged man of small stature, slightly balding with pale blue eyes behind his round glasses. We learned the lyrics, sang the many songs over and over again, and he never became impatient or angry when a mistake was made. He gave us confidence. Many melodies were beautiful and also catchy and, without realizing it, I hummed them quite often during the day.

The time came when we had to rehearse with the other singers. We were introduced to the concert agent Ernesto Hall, the lead singer from Germany, Dolores Mannerheim, who was to sing the roll of the gypsy princess, the handsome tenor from Argentina, Eva Krutein, the music coach, and many more participants. At the beginning we gathered a few times in the school auditorium, and then at the opera house itself. We had to get acquainted with the layout of the theater, the stage, get used to the acoustics, lighting and side wings. We had to know where the back entrance was, since this time we were not the audience but the performers. It was all unfamiliar territory for us, our first venture into the theater world behind the curtains.

Before the dress rehearsal we were given our costumes: one set for a typical gypsy, complete with jewelry and headdress, and one for a simple farm-girl. Depending on the scene, we had to change from one to the other, and it had to be done fast.

Then they showed us how to apply our make-up. Our faces were practically re-done.

“I think I have to work on your eyebrows,” a helpful person said to me, grabbing a bar of soap. “I will cover them up with this. It’s cheap but effective,” he explained. “Gypsies and country folks don’t have such light skin as you do. We have to give you a tan,” And he applied a darker foundation to my face. “We are almost done,” he exclaimed, as he drew new arching eyebrows, added eye shadow, dark lipstick and rouge. In no time he had turned me into somebody else.

“Do you like it? You saw how easy it is. Now you can do it yourself.” And off he went to his next object without waiting for my reply, comment, or thank you.

The general public became aware of the upcoming performance. Articles were printed in the Condor, the weekly German newspaper. Posters, announcing the operetta, were displayed at the opera house. They depicted the German singer with her long blond hair in an exotic gypsy outfit. The sale of tickets began. We were given two complimentary ones for our parents.

The thought of being part of this event was exciting, especially when someone approached me with questions and I had most of the answers. It felt great. I felt important.

And now it was opening day. The house was sold out. I peeked through the spy hole in the curtain and saw the mass of people. It gave me goose bumps to see all the faces in the audience. It was both intimidating and challenging. Mostly everybody was seated. Only a few latecomers waited for ushers. This was it, the moment we had worked for.

We were at our positions on the stage and waited.

The overture, a musical summary of the operetta, was coming to its end. Applause again and slowly the curtain rose. The prompter sat in her box, smiling, as if to give us courage. Beyond her, the conductor was looking at us, his eyebrows raised demanding attention. The orchestra began to play. He raised his arm, held it there for a few seconds pointing the baton at the lead singer. With a swing of his baton he gave her the exactly timed entrance. 

My heart pounded, but a few seconds into the music I calmed down. All I had learned was still there. One scene, one beautiful aria, followed another. There were many nuanced feelings in the melodies, from fast and happy to slow and heart-gripping sadness. Melancholic gypsy tunes alternated with military beats and tender love songs. They spoke of gypsy girls, hidden treasures, noble heirs and pig farmers, of soldiers and fortune telling and, of course, the gypsy baron. They all sounded very much alive.

The first act was over, the second, and then the third. After the last tone faded away, there was silence and then thundering applause, turning into a standing ovation. It was proof that we had captured the audience’s imagination. There were several curtain calls and bouquets of flowers given to the main characters. And then the show was over.

Yes, the show was over, as well as my short-lived singing career. But I was filled with pride and joy for having participated in this operetta. It had been a wonderful and unique experience and will be forever engraved in my memory.