Hark the Anglo-Saxons sing�

In my third year at university, my choir was invited (this deserves italics because it was unheard of to actually be invited to go to this prestigious conference) to a choir conference being held in New Orleans immediately following Mardi Gras. We were the only Canadian choir there, although there were other Canadians, one or two of whom we befriended. But this entry is not about the conference itself, but about a money-raising venture to facilitate our getting there.

My roommate, an alto, saw a notice advertising for singers to serenade some party or other at one of those really big mansions on Rideout Street; so she removed it from the notice board, enlisted the help of a tenor and bass with whom we were good friends, and we rehearsed carols from the Kings College Cambridge edition (the green book, I believe it was) to perform for some sum (I never did find out how much) to put towards this trip.

Cathy and I lived in an apartment on the first floor of a building in a crescent full of apartment buildings, known to everyone as Cherry Hill. There were a couple of nursing students living in the apartment above us, who took exception to our music. They regularly banged on the floor with broom handles or some other form of noise maker to get our attention. All they had to do was come to the door, but no, they preferred to be anonymously annoying instead. So we four intrepid choristers were rehearsing �Good King Wenceslaus� (men=king; women=page), when the banging started. We just plowed on until we had finished our rehearsal, then bundled ourselves up into our warm outer gear, and headed off to the party. It was a success, we were lauded and paid, and that was that.

But what I remember was the mistletoe hanging in the vestibule, and the kiss that Gordon gave me, all unsuspecting. He ended up dating my roommate for a while, but he is now married to a rather famous soprano in Toronto. He was a fabulous bass, that I remember particularly well, but has apparently stopped performing and now works with retarded children. Good man. Our tenor, Michael, married a percussionist who became a CBC producer and moved out to the maritimes. Cathy married a different Michael, this time a clarinettist, and I think they moved to Vancouver, after a stint in Sudbury (of all places). These people have all become characters in the story of my life, shadowy figures of my past.

Okay, so I was inspired by Ilonina�s description of her three days of caroling on the city sidewalks. For the life of me, I can�t recall if I have actually done this myself. In middle age my memory is turning to mush. No, I can only think of singing in warmth and comfort, not having to compete with traffic and cell-phone waving pedestrians. It sounds romantic, in theory, but for me to do it there would have to be a hearty mug of mulled wine afterwards for incentive. I hope the Quiristers of Santa Sophia�s in Bailegann�ire were rewarded with some sort of cheer upon their quitting of the street. They surely deserve it.

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