Part 2: Reflections on The Memorial of St. Wenceslas

I realized that yesterday was the feast of St. Wenceslaus. When my Dad played for daily Mass, the last three days in September were an opportunity to break out some Christmas music: “Good King Wenceslaus,” and then the angel songs for Michaelmas and the Guardian Angels. It’s become a tradition for one of us to call the other on September 28 and for us to sing it together. In 2011 and 2012, I didn’t quite have the energy to sing the duet, but we tried. This year, it didn’t happen. So, here it is:

Good King Wenceslas; click for a Youtube of the Irish Rovers rendition (happened to be my first hit on YouTube, and since my Dad likes them, it fit)

The hardest part of this last 6 months for me (Thursday having been the sixth mensiversary of my surgery–another day that went by in a blur) has been my inability to sing. Not only can I not carry a tune, but I can barely sustain a sentence speaking. I’ve already explained in my previous post why I opted not to get surgery, and even if I got it, I wouldn’t be able to sing.

I cry almost daily about it. I first mentioned it the day I “got my voice back” after my “temporary injection.” I was watching the 2004 _Phantom_ movie with the kids and couldn’t help but burst out with “Angel of Music,” only to croak like Carlotta in “Poor Fool He Makes Me Laugh.” I keep dreaming that suddenly I try and, even though I still can’t talk, I can sing like I did before.

Once in Fifth Grade, my friend’s father followed me to the car leaned down when my Mom rolled down the window, touched me on the shoulder, and said, “I know what happiness is! Teach this kid a new song!”

The late Laurie Beechman (1953-1998), Broadway’s longest-running Grizabella. Click here for an amateur recording of one of her performances. Everything comes to a halt when the audience applauds.

When I was in high school, and my great ambition was to return to St. Jude (now closed) as a teacher or principal, another friend, Jeff, my future best man, would joke that “twenty years from now” (which is now), I’d still be walking down the hall singing Andrew Lloyd Webber shows (all parts, all the way through), come into teacher’s lounge, and Mr. Z would still be sitting there, saying, “John, shut up!” Or the time his dad was preparing a sample interim for a demonstration of how to write them in the “new” gradebook software, and wrote, “John Hathaway is a terrible student. He’s in my Trig/Pre-Calc class. He sings in the halls, falls asleep in class, tells jokes, and has a 110 average.”

Side story: the latest I ever went into the pool was in mid-October (I think the 15th), when their family came over for dinner, and Jeff convinced me to go swimming. The next day, at lunch, a girl who graduated the year before sat at our table. We were talking about swimming the night before, and she said, “You were at his house?” (Our parents were friends through church and Cursillo). “Yeah, his mom and my mom are friends,” he said. “And my dad and his dad,” I replied. “And my dad and him,” Jeff retorted, referring to the amount of time his dad I and would spend talking about computers. A few years later, during my parents’ annual Christmas party, which had a particularly big guest list that year, Jeff went to get a regular cup from the cabinet instead of a disposable. His sister scolded him and said that was impolite: “That’s for family.” “But I’m like family, aren’t I, John?” he replied, and I validated. When Mary met Jeff, he asked her, “Do you like Barry Manilow?” She said, “I don’t know yet.” He said, “Well, you’re going to have to.”

Here Comes the Night (no link)

_Evita_ got me through the Clinton years, and Eva’s poignant prayer at the end of “Waltz for Eva and Che” has always been a catharsis for me: “Oh, what I’d give for a hundred years, but the physical interferes–every day more, O my creator! What is the good of the strongest heart in a body that’s falling apart? . . .”

Back in VA, when I’d see a sign for Dumfries, or Mary would talk about her friend who used to live in Carlisle, PA, or just being on the VRE or Metro, would evoke “Skimbleshanks.”

“They were sleeping all the while I was busy at Carlisle Where I met the stationmaster with elation! They might see me at Dumfries if I summoned the police If there was anything they ought to know about.”

Allie (who, after her most recent growth spurt and personality growth, is starting more to fit her full name, Alexandra) has always preferred Provolone. One time, I bought her some when we had gone to Wal-Mart for one specific reason, and she said, in the car, “Well, are you gonna sing it?” Whenever we’d pick some up at the grocery store, or go to Subway, I’d sing the verse from the Italian mouse in “There Are No Cats in America” from _An American Tail_:

“The Times were harrd in Sic-cily; we hada no provolonay! The Don, he wa-as a tabby wi-ith a taste for my brother Tony! When Mama went to pleada for him, the Don said he would see her. We found her Rosary on the ground. Poor Mama Mia! BUT–“

During our first two years here, when I was doing my gardening, I would see my sunflowers, think of “Like a sunflower, I yearn to turn my face to the dawn,” and start singing “Memory,” or just doing labor which always leads to “Look Down” or “It’s a Hard Knock Life,” and thus everything that follows. I’d sing “Mungojerrie and Rumpleteazer” when I was in a joking mood about Josef & Clara’s mischief and bickering.

In the ICU and rehab, I kept playing songs in my head, like Peter Cetera’s “Glory of Love” or the Four Seasons’ “Working My Way Back to You.”

Now, I just keep thinking of the best song from _Love Never Dies_: “Till I Hear You Sing”

Love Never Dies

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