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Authors: Bryan Batt
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marriage, but helped Moozie when she was needed.
The word
partiality
was and still is used often in my extended family. Katie was partial to Norma, Moozie was partial to Gayle, but what could have torn the sisters apart made them closer despite the shortcomings of their parents. Norma was everything to Katie, but Moozie was the daughter who cared for her until her dying day. When confronted by this rampant favoritism, Moozie just shrugged, eyes raised to the sky, saying, “You can’t help who you love.”
Although the famous Nuss sisters were the closest of siblings, they were very different. Moozie, whose nickname often varied, but always contained the syllable “moo,” was large and loathed anything to do with cooking. Norma was thin and a gourmet. Hazel had let her hair turn silver, and dressed conservatively. Norma was a bottle blonde who was the first to bob her hair and become a flapper in the 1920s, and now the first to wear a ladies’ pantsuit. But both felt unswerving love and devotion to their family. Aunt Norma called me “heart.” She taught Sunday school and always made sure to include Jay and me when her class made holiday presents so that my parents would always receive something handmade from us.
The Nuss sisters were here to assess and perfect Mom’s choreography for my third-grade spectacle. The music started, and the strains of “Rudolph the Red-Nosed Reindeer” reverberated through the room as I started tapping across the gray terrazzo floor, slipping every so often because of the high polish and wax buildup. That didn’t stop me. I was Rudolph, the soon-to-be star of the third-grade Christmas play,
The Night Before Christmas
.
Now, you may be saying to yourself, there is no Rudolph in
The Night Before Christmas
. Well, let me tell you there was going to be one in the Henson Auditorium on December 18, 1971, for two performances only! My teachers had noticed my spark of theatricality and created this part just for me. Now that I had Moozie and Norma to guide me professionally, and the promise of a lit-up red nose, this performance was going to slay all of Isidore Newman School. Newman is one of the most respected private college preparatory learning institutions in New Orleans and the entire Mississippi Delta region. It’s alumni is a who’s-who of New Orleans, and since my father attended until he was sent to Culver Military Academy, he insisted that Jay and I would be Newman Greenies.
The third-grade Christmas play (yes, it was still called a Christmas play) was one of the big three events of the year, along with the fifth-grade play and the high school musical. Three years before, Jay had made a respectable Frosty. Now I, the singing and tap-dancing Rudolph, was poised and ready to go down in grade-school theatrical history. But how? The dance was good, but secretly I wanted
great
. My Rudolph needed to be as good as the Ernie Flatt dancers on
The Carol Burnett Show
. As I was tapping, flapping, and ball-changing my heart out, Mom stopped the routine.
“This number needs something with more pizzazz, something show-stoppy, something acrobatic. Baby, can you do a cartwheel?”
“Of course I can, Mom.”
Challenged, I started to prepare to do a cartwheel andall was going fine, the jump, each hand perfectly placed, legs straight and toes pointed, but what neither one of us realized was that because of the metal taps and highly buffed stone flooring, I had no hope of a smooth landing. I slid across the floor and careened into Aunt Norma, causing her to collide into Moozie, sending her hot cup of Sanka flying. At this point it occurred to all of us that this trick was not a viable addition to my performance. Unbeknownst to us, Dad, with scotch number three in tow along with Jay, had been spying on our rehearsal during a commercial break, and my flailing fall sent him into peals of laughter.
“Encore! Mr. Astaire!” he shouted. And Jay said, “Smooth move, Ex-Lax.”
Norma was at
The word
partiality
was and still is used often in my extended family. Katie was partial to Norma, Moozie was partial to Gayle, but what could have torn the sisters apart made them closer despite the shortcomings of their parents. Norma was everything to Katie, but Moozie was the daughter who cared for her until her dying day. When confronted by this rampant favoritism, Moozie just shrugged, eyes raised to the sky, saying, “You can’t help who you love.”
Although the famous Nuss sisters were the closest of siblings, they were very different. Moozie, whose nickname often varied, but always contained the syllable “moo,” was large and loathed anything to do with cooking. Norma was thin and a gourmet. Hazel had let her hair turn silver, and dressed conservatively. Norma was a bottle blonde who was the first to bob her hair and become a flapper in the 1920s, and now the first to wear a ladies’ pantsuit. But both felt unswerving love and devotion to their family. Aunt Norma called me “heart.” She taught Sunday school and always made sure to include Jay and me when her class made holiday presents so that my parents would always receive something handmade from us.
The Nuss sisters were here to assess and perfect Mom’s choreography for my third-grade spectacle. The music started, and the strains of “Rudolph the Red-Nosed Reindeer” reverberated through the room as I started tapping across the gray terrazzo floor, slipping every so often because of the high polish and wax buildup. That didn’t stop me. I was Rudolph, the soon-to-be star of the third-grade Christmas play,
The Night Before Christmas
.
Now, you may be saying to yourself, there is no Rudolph in
The Night Before Christmas
. Well, let me tell you there was going to be one in the Henson Auditorium on December 18, 1971, for two performances only! My teachers had noticed my spark of theatricality and created this part just for me. Now that I had Moozie and Norma to guide me professionally, and the promise of a lit-up red nose, this performance was going to slay all of Isidore Newman School. Newman is one of the most respected private college preparatory learning institutions in New Orleans and the entire Mississippi Delta region. It’s alumni is a who’s-who of New Orleans, and since my father attended until he was sent to Culver Military Academy, he insisted that Jay and I would be Newman Greenies.
The third-grade Christmas play (yes, it was still called a Christmas play) was one of the big three events of the year, along with the fifth-grade play and the high school musical. Three years before, Jay had made a respectable Frosty. Now I, the singing and tap-dancing Rudolph, was poised and ready to go down in grade-school theatrical history. But how? The dance was good, but secretly I wanted
great
. My Rudolph needed to be as good as the Ernie Flatt dancers on
The Carol Burnett Show
. As I was tapping, flapping, and ball-changing my heart out, Mom stopped the routine.
“This number needs something with more pizzazz, something show-stoppy, something acrobatic. Baby, can you do a cartwheel?”
“Of course I can, Mom.”
Challenged, I started to prepare to do a cartwheel andall was going fine, the jump, each hand perfectly placed, legs straight and toes pointed, but what neither one of us realized was that because of the metal taps and highly buffed stone flooring, I had no hope of a smooth landing. I slid across the floor and careened into Aunt Norma, causing her to collide into Moozie, sending her hot cup of Sanka flying. At this point it occurred to all of us that this trick was not a viable addition to my performance. Unbeknownst to us, Dad, with scotch number three in tow along with Jay, had been spying on our rehearsal during a commercial break, and my flailing fall sent him into peals of laughter.
“Encore! Mr. Astaire!” he shouted. And Jay said, “Smooth move, Ex-Lax.”
Norma was at
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