It all happened so long ago-over fifty years ago, in
fact. But I just found out about it the
other day-and that was straight from the horse’s
mouth-so to speak. Anyway, this is how
the old boy told the story to me. (I mean
no disrespect, you see. He’ll always be
a boy to me and I to him-forever locked in the summers of boyhood.)
He started-just out of the blue. “You know,” he said, “I never could sing a
note!” This, from a member in good standing of a musical
family of community repute. I did
not know that, although I was very close to his family and had lived with them,
off and on, for years. I could
immediately sense that this was to be a genuine revelation. He started off slowly but picked it up and
warmed it up as his tale wagged along.
“You know my family was very musical,” he continued. I did know that but I did not interrupt as he
continued. “Most every evening, but
especially Saturday evenings, we’d all gather round the piano. Usually mother would play and firmly
encourage us all to sing along. She
wouldn’t take no for an answer once she made up her mind about anything and she
loved music so much.”
“My dad could play the piano too but he played by ear. One sister played the violin and a brother
could play several instruments,” the old boy continued. “You understand all this took place a long,
long time ago!” I nodded and he went
on. “Well, it became clear to me early
on,” he said, “that I had a real big problem-that with all the pressure to
perform as a part of the family music group, and at such a young age.”
“I puzzled and fretted to find a solution and while making
faces in the mirror one day, the answer was right there before my eyes.” “Immediately I started experimenting. I put the radio on a station that played
vocals, listened for ones where I knew all the words and began private
rehearsals.” The old boy’s eyes seemed
to glaze over a bit and moistened as he reminisced with his fond family
memories slowly coming into focus. To
help him I prompted. “What were some of
the song the family sang? Can you
remember?” He sat up straight and leaned
forward with a start. He apparently took
this as something of an insult. “Of
course I remember. I still remember them
all,” he snapped. But I could tell his
reflective pause was to buy some time and try very hard to recall at least one
or two of their most popular numbers to save credibility. In this reflective stage he lowered his chin
down to his chest, wrinkled both eyebrows, pursed his lips and looked at me scoldingly over the top of his bifocals. It was the exact stern position and facial
expression that I had seen his father take a million times before; usually when
I had said something dumb. He held that
look and I did a double-take. Now it was
my turn for moistened eyes. I did love
his father so. And he had taken on all
the distinct mannerisms, expressions, even the voice of his father before him. He started speaking again just as abruptly as
he had stopped. “the
afternoons before pre-announced evening song fests became final dress
rehearsals for me,” he said. “I even
worked gestures into my little act.
Usually I’d try holding the back of one hand or the other up near the
corner of my mouth.” “Can I still
remember what songs?” he chided, backing up to a much earlier question. “Of course I can…clear as a bell. There were so many and we got good at all of
them. Some were fast. Some were slow, but most were hymns.” “Let’s
see there was…
-
‘When The Roll Is Called Up Yonder’
-
‘I’ll Take You Home Again, Kathleen’
-
‘The Little
-
‘What A Friend We Have In Jesus’
-
‘Wait Till The Sun Shines, Nellie’
-
‘I Wondered Today To The Hills,
Maggie’
-
‘The Old Rugged Cross’
and we always gave ourselves an encore
with ‘Whispering Hope’.” “There were
other songs too,” he said, “Like…’Leaning on the Everlasting Arms’, and ‘When
We All Get To Heaven’.” With that he
lapsed into a total silence, sort of a deep mediation and I did the same. After a considerable time had passed and not
a word between us, I began to feel that it was late and I should go-but without
disturbing him. As I stood up to leave,
his eyes snapped open. He leaned forward
again, just as before, straight of back and stern of countenance; that steely
gaze resurrected. Then his entire
appearance was transformed again. His
face virtually lit up. He stood, shook
my hand vigorously and mused for a moment stroking his chin with his left hand. His eyes twinkled in merriment as he said, “I
guess I invented lip-synch.”
And he did, too! I
know, because he’s my brother.
From:
Tales of The Heartland Hills
By: Bill Vivrett
