My granddaughter, Betsy, will be 19 on February 12, which gives me enough time to rehearse, and then call and sing to her the popular and banal "Happy Birthday," without my voice collapsing in the final notes.
Part of my distress in flunking at warbling is that Betsy, her mother, my other child and her two sons, can sing. So if their DNA permits this crowd to complete the yearly greetings, and leaves me usually ending the call jokingly with, "Sorry about this; to not spoil your birthday, I won't finish the song." Laughter ensues; I'm off the hook until another celebration demands a curtain call.
To make matters worse, Spouse #1 starred in community theatre, and dearly departed #2 crooned around our upright.
If you can sing, and I'm sharing hips with you in a chorus, I will catch your confidence and match you note for note. But if you should vanish from my side, my open mouth will be just that; open, sans sound.
Before you cue the violins, I should tell you that I don't have a terrible voice. In fact, four previous voice teachers will attest that I have a good ear, am not tone deaf, and can sing on pitch. So why after this quartet of professionals confirmed I am qualified to sing, have I just signed up for my 5th climb up the clef for "Relax, Breath, and Sing" at Chicago's Old Town School of Folk Music?
My angst at singing in public -- even to an audience of one birthday celebrant, or students in previous voice classes -- is not related to glossophobia, the fear of public speaking. As evidence, I have had glorious times appearing in front of many groups -- at book readings, for residents of senior housing, and women's clubs. On those occasions, I'm relaxed, funny, and adorable. Yet, here I go again, at age 82, enrolling and marking my calendar for eight Sundays.
Perhaps one reason I'm returning to The Old Town School of Folk Music, instead of say, a private vocal coach, is that one of their teachers, Gwen Pippen, came the closest to helping me reach my goal. Gwen was dedicated to supporting ordinary people fulfill their musical dreams and castigated others "who intimidated the less gifted into silence."
Several times a year, Gwen would feature her students in recitals, complete with costumes, props, and staging. I never had the nerve to participate, and after Gwen died in 2014, any thoughts of seeing myself on stage evaporated.
Think me foolish for continuing this folly? Let me buttress with I am the exemplar of Try, try, try again. For example, I finally learned how to swim at age 79 after six attempts during other pathetic laps with coaches from 1998 to 2019. Kathy Crowley Kelly -- who specializes in toddlers -- was my savior.
There's a saying: When the student is ready; the teacher will appear. I dispute this; I've been ready and eager to swim ever since Chicago Park District pools opened each summer. Why would I be more ready as an old lady, with fewer years ahead than behind?
Shi-An Costello was my 6th piano teacher who helped me achieve a simple goal: play Rodgers and Hart with only me for the audience. I was somewhere in the decade of my 70's for that, too.
I pin my success with Shi-An by his method of teaching me Seventh Chords. Thus prepared, I could cease trying to puzzle out notes on the bass clef of a staff and finally tap out the notes of "It Never Entered My Mind," the song Tommy and I discovered on our first date in 1996, was our mutual favorite .
The upcoming Old Town School of Folk Music teacher, Andrea Bunch, will be my latest guru, and promises in the catalog that in eight weeks, I will "learn vocal techniques which incorporate breath, relaxation, and singing techniques into song."
Because our class will be via Zoom, and I will be in my own comfortable and familiar surroundings, perhaps I will indeed conquer my musical malady. My pandemic attire -- t-shirts and elastic waistband leggings -- should encourage effortless breathing. And the likelihood I will be the oldest student in the group, may lead Andrea to grant me thumbs up for my chutzpah, and perhaps awe for my age's ability to navigate Zoom.
But if I should emerge after eight weeks of breathing and vocalizing, still unable to manage the Happy Birthday melody from its first C to its final F, there's always spring semester.