Momma Got Gypped
I was eight years old. All I wanted from life was an arm chair, a fairy tale, and sour pickles. But no, little girls should be accomplished and I was a little girl, so Momma set out to make me accomplished.
The first step toward finishing me was dancing school. When I gave definite promise of possessing two left feet, I was withdrawn and threatened with voice lessons. But anyone who had heard me sing never forgot, nor did they forgive.
So I was rounded instead into a ten-cent-a-week dramatic class at the Y.W.C.A. Luck was with me: I was just in time for the casting of a Christmas play. The name of the masterpiece escapes my memory at the moment, and I am sure the author of it would much rather have it that way.
I received a tremendous role. “Merry Christmas!” was the line I was given, and my action consisted of running on the stage accompanied by another little girl, hanging a sock over the hearth and then quickly exiting. I was to be a Royal Princess; the King was a vigorous well-fed girl of fourteen and my stage relationship to her was my chief claim to fame.
The important night arrived. My family was sitting out front four rows deep. I was backstage shaking in a long, aristocratic nightgown trimmed with cotton fur. The play was duly proceeding. At length came the moment when the King asked the Prime Minister to bring on the little Princesses. That was our cue. We were ready for the entrance but my sock was suddenly missing. The Prime Minister made his appearance with one Princess, while I, assisted by all of the backstage personnel, hunted frantically for my sock. It was found reposing on a piece of scenery, where I had left it some minutes before.
Sock in hand I was pushed before the footlights. The King bestowed a black, unfatherly look on his daughter and ad-libbed: “Ah, my little one, always late! What do you have to say to your father on this wondrous eve?” My heart fumbled and I yelled: “Happy New Year!!” There was a gasp from someone in the wings. I cast one terrified look at the King, curtsied, and scrambled to join my ‘sister’ at the cardboard fireplace. She whispered: “Hurry up. I am ready to go offstage.”
Left alone in my misery, I attempted to attach the sock to the cardboard with a pin. The cardboard refused to cooperate and the sock dropped to the floor. I tried again and again but with no success, and my face getting redder and redder all the while. I looked helplessly at the audience; the audience laughed. The King, instead of listening to the Prime Minister who was delivering a lengthy sermon about trouble brewing in the State, was glowering at me, and finally walked in my direction and whispered in a very un-kingly and unladylike manner: “Get the hell off!” I took the advice but was so hasty about it that I ran into the heavily-laden Christmas tree. Down we came in a heap, wrestling frenziedly on the floor. The Prime Minister bravely continued his warning about pending revolution, and some rowdy in the audience took his opportunity and shouted: “It has already come!” The audience broke down and howled. Santa Claus (by courtesy of the Y.M.C.A.) rushed on the scene and picked me out of the tinsel. I made a grand exit in the arms of Uncle Nick, who was meanwhile promising in my ear some very unkind gifts. Behind me rang the applause of a delighted audience. Before me I saw the grim faces of the stage manager and her assistants. I caught one glimpse out front of my mortified mother.
The result of my disastrous debut was that the next day I was on the road to a musician’s career with my dramatic past behind me but not forgotten.
A sympathetic aunt donated a piano which she had been trying to get rid of for the past three years and I started piano lessons. I practiced daily. After four hard weeks came recognition. A frightened, apologetic landlord paid us a visit. He made it clear that he had nothing against me personally but that six of the tenants had signed a petition. They could no longer bear the continual banging, and even more, the musical mistakes which ‘that kid’ made. Either I left the house or they would. It was the piano that went.
Momma finally gave up on me after she almost had a nervous breakdown over the whole thing. But my father thanked God; the neighbors were happy; the relatives said ‘I told you so!’; and I was left in the hands of Nature to grow up unaided by the Muses. I went back to my armchair, my fairy tales, and spent my weekly allowances on sour pickles — lots of them. The world lost a potential genius — Momma got gypped.
Circa 1939.