handed it over. It was a coil of baling wire. Twisted in it were tiny tin stars, cut from cans. A day’s work to make. Grandma stood back, her hands clasped, a little eagerness in her eyes. “Watch out them stars don’t dig your scalp.”
She’d made me a halo so Carleen Lovejoy in all her tinsel wouldn’t outshine me. It looked more like a crown of thorns, but I handled it, carefully.
I’d have come dangerously near kissing Grandma then, if she’d let me.
Then I was walking through town in galoshes to save my shoes. We’d done all our rehearsing at school. But the program was to be at the United Brethren Church. Though Jesus was born in a stable, the school basement didn’t seem quite right.
The church threw stained-glass light out on the snow, and people flocked up the front steps. As I went inside, the train from St. Louis pulled in at the Wabash depot. The whole town became a little village under a Christmas tree, with the electric train circling and the glowing cardboard houses and the steepled church, sunk in cotton snow.
If you think one Christmas program is like another, you didn’t see ours. The robing room where we girls got ready was full of bad omens. Who knew what went on across the chancel, where the boys were dressing in the choir room with Mr. Herkimer?
The girls who were only in the chorus flapped like bats in United Brethren choir robes. The angels were Irene Stemple, Mona Veech, Gertrude Messerschmidt, and the littlest angel was Ina-Rae Gage. None of their wings matched. Ina-Rae, the smallest, had the biggest wings—chicken wire. She could barely move in the room. It was like a birdcage in there. Then in swept Carleen Lovejoy.
Her shimmering gown, cut on the bias, was meant to outdo the other angels. Her halo hovered high over her head, supported from behind. She was made up for the New York stage. She’d shaved off her eyebrows and drawn on new ones. Her cheeks were pinker than nature. Her lips were a deep red Cupid’s bow, with fingernails to match. She was a natural blonde, and that was the only natural thing about her.
Miss Butler edged into the room, and Carleen very nearly blinded her.
“Carleen! Wipe all that stuff off your face,” she said, stricter than school. “You look like you’re bleeding from the mouth.”
Carleen bridled and stood firm. Seeing that I was in three hanging sheets, Miss Butler turned to secure my costume. When I reached for my coat and drew out the baling-wire halo, she nearly swallowed her pins.
But there was an opening-night excitement even among us. From backstage you could hear the rustle of paper programs and the creak of pews. The organ boomed “Hark! The Herald Angels Sing!” and there was no going back.
The United Brethren preacher, Reverend Lutz, rose to quiet the crowd with a passage from Saint Luke. Miss Butler was pushing the choirgirls on. We in costume were to hang back here offstage, singing through the open door to add volume, but keeping out of sight until the Nativity scene. No choirboys came forth, because they were all in costume. But we could see shepherds and kings in the door behind Mr. Herkimer.
We sang our hearts out, onstage and backstage. Miss Butler kept the pacing peppy, though we never did get the bugs out of “Once In Royal David’s City.” Then came the tricky part.
We of the Nativity scene had to creep low under the curtains behind the choir. Here was the stable all set up, with cardboard sheep. I groped for my stool beside the manger. Above me Milton Grider fell into place as Joseph. We had shepherds behind us and kings opposite. Between, under the star, the heavenly host of so-called angels, Carleen at center stage.
From what I could see of Milton, he was wearing his father’s bathrobe and a false beard. The kings were beginning to hold up frankincense and myrrh.
As the choir parted and broke into “O Holy Night,” Mr. Herkimer pulled the curtain, and the lights went up on us. Mr. Fluke was the
She’d made me a halo so Carleen Lovejoy in all her tinsel wouldn’t outshine me. It looked more like a crown of thorns, but I handled it, carefully.
I’d have come dangerously near kissing Grandma then, if she’d let me.
Then I was walking through town in galoshes to save my shoes. We’d done all our rehearsing at school. But the program was to be at the United Brethren Church. Though Jesus was born in a stable, the school basement didn’t seem quite right.
The church threw stained-glass light out on the snow, and people flocked up the front steps. As I went inside, the train from St. Louis pulled in at the Wabash depot. The whole town became a little village under a Christmas tree, with the electric train circling and the glowing cardboard houses and the steepled church, sunk in cotton snow.
If you think one Christmas program is like another, you didn’t see ours. The robing room where we girls got ready was full of bad omens. Who knew what went on across the chancel, where the boys were dressing in the choir room with Mr. Herkimer?
The girls who were only in the chorus flapped like bats in United Brethren choir robes. The angels were Irene Stemple, Mona Veech, Gertrude Messerschmidt, and the littlest angel was Ina-Rae Gage. None of their wings matched. Ina-Rae, the smallest, had the biggest wings—chicken wire. She could barely move in the room. It was like a birdcage in there. Then in swept Carleen Lovejoy.
Her shimmering gown, cut on the bias, was meant to outdo the other angels. Her halo hovered high over her head, supported from behind. She was made up for the New York stage. She’d shaved off her eyebrows and drawn on new ones. Her cheeks were pinker than nature. Her lips were a deep red Cupid’s bow, with fingernails to match. She was a natural blonde, and that was the only natural thing about her.
Miss Butler edged into the room, and Carleen very nearly blinded her.
“Carleen! Wipe all that stuff off your face,” she said, stricter than school. “You look like you’re bleeding from the mouth.”
Carleen bridled and stood firm. Seeing that I was in three hanging sheets, Miss Butler turned to secure my costume. When I reached for my coat and drew out the baling-wire halo, she nearly swallowed her pins.
But there was an opening-night excitement even among us. From backstage you could hear the rustle of paper programs and the creak of pews. The organ boomed “Hark! The Herald Angels Sing!” and there was no going back.
The United Brethren preacher, Reverend Lutz, rose to quiet the crowd with a passage from Saint Luke. Miss Butler was pushing the choirgirls on. We in costume were to hang back here offstage, singing through the open door to add volume, but keeping out of sight until the Nativity scene. No choirboys came forth, because they were all in costume. But we could see shepherds and kings in the door behind Mr. Herkimer.
We sang our hearts out, onstage and backstage. Miss Butler kept the pacing peppy, though we never did get the bugs out of “Once In Royal David’s City.” Then came the tricky part.
We of the Nativity scene had to creep low under the curtains behind the choir. Here was the stable all set up, with cardboard sheep. I groped for my stool beside the manger. Above me Milton Grider fell into place as Joseph. We had shepherds behind us and kings opposite. Between, under the star, the heavenly host of so-called angels, Carleen at center stage.
From what I could see of Milton, he was wearing his father’s bathrobe and a false beard. The kings were beginning to hold up frankincense and myrrh.
As the choir parted and broke into “O Holy Night,” Mr. Herkimer pulled the curtain, and the lights went up on us. Mr. Fluke was the
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