A Star was not born

I was telling my husband about some of my childhood singing adventures yesterday on the way to the doctor who did his cochlear implant, and decided to do a blog entry about the subject.

My mother truly must have thought I was a great singer:  She was always wanting someone to hear me.  For instance, when I was three or four years old, I was supposed to sing some simple little lullabye in the Christmas program at the local one-room school, even though I wasn't in school yet.  Someone was to place my little red rocking chair on the teacher's desk so people could see me, and I'd hold my baby doll and sing some lullabye called "Bye Oh Baby".  When my big moment came at the end of the program, I saw all those people looking at me and refused to even go to the front, although the emcee (teacher) gave me a couple of chances to change my mind.  Then I heard a hand bell ringing from outside the door of the school and Santa came in Ho-Ho-Hoing, ringing the bell in one hand and carrying a sack of goodies in the other!  My mom said that when I saw Santa, I immediately began singing Bye-oh-Baby at the top of my lungs in hopes that he wouldn't leave me out when he gave out the treats.  Sometimes I think I remember that part of it happening, but Mother told that story at least a hundred times, so that's probably why I think I recall it.  I imagine that was the last time I turned down a request to sing;  after all, one never knows when Santa might show up.

Later, when I was in the first or second grade at the one-room schoolhouse, my mom was still trying to make a star of me, and the teacher had me singing in every school program, so she wasn't helping much.  There was a spring school program held in the basement of the Guss, Iowa, Methodist Church because the small schoolhouse got crowded when folks came to a program there and had to sit at the desks, which were none too comfy for adults.  I do recall this event very well:  A boy my age was supposed to ride standing on the back of a tricycle while I pedaled in a circle and sang "Daisy, Daisy, give me your answer do."

It was going well until I made too sharp a turn and the trike fell over sideways.  My red face felt the heat of my embarrassment. 

Just one more reason why I never learned to drive. 

My mom also put me in a couple of talent contests.  The first one was for students of several small schools in the area.  My teacher, I think, was the one who thought this up:  She would play piano while a little boy my age and I would do  a duet.  The song was Mr. and Mississippi, and we alternated verses.  We had patches on our clothes, and the little boy was carrying a stick on his shoulder with a bundle on one end, like a hobo.  I think he also had a straw hat on.  I still remember most of the words to the song.

After all the time spent practicing, we didn't win.  But my mother was not to be denied, and another talent contest would came around. 

I was probably a year older then.  I remember she tried to make me take a nap that afternoon so I'd be fully rested, but I hadn't taken a nap in years and couldn't go to sleep.  This time I was singing My Heart Cries for You.  I'm not sure why my mother chose a love song for her seven- or eight-year-old child to sing; probably she just happened to like the song.  To make it worse, when I sang the line "My arms long for you..." I was to hold my arms out at my side.  When I got to the final line of the chorus (Please come back to me), I was to put my hands one atop the other to my heart.  As if the words weren't sappy enough!

Again, of course, I didn't win.  However, I did love to sing.

To be continued, I think.