Sing a New Song

                                                         

As a  young boy with a high voice, and a real  passion for singing, I tried out for  the choir at our synagogue. You  just needed to sing on key , carry a  tune  reasonably well  and do a passable job of reading Hebrew. A number of my friends were already  in the choir, so I was eager and proud to join them.

At first, I only sang at Friday night services, which were only a little over  an hour long . I thought it was fun  being up near the altar, singing my heart out in a  long black robe with a  funny white collar.  Our quirky choir leader, Mr. Squire,was an elderly man with a tuning fork and smelled like menthol He  muttered under his breath when we were out of tune. I belonged to the boy alto section;  Mr. Squire affectionately  called us  his   "little cockaroaches" if  we weren't on key or paying attention. Despite his grumbling, I think old Mr. Squire really like teaching us to sing. When we were at our best, he'd nod his head and smile.

To conclude each  Sabbath service, it was customary for a choir boy to chant the "Kiddush" or traditional  blessing over the wine. When it eventually was  my turn, I had to ignore  about a  million butterflies  in my stomach. Walking slowly from the choir section, I nodded to the rabbi who smiled and  handed me a  silver goblet brimming with  wine. I climbed up the step under the podium, then,.taking a deep breath, I began to sing into the microphone. Much to my amazement, my voice soared over the congregation. I looked up and saw my mom and dad beaming with pride.

I did a good job of completing  the prayer without a hitch, and then raised the full cup to my lips. As I took a  big gulp,  the fumes immediately went straight to my head. The congregation laughed  as my face and ears turned as red as the kosher wine. I put the cup down. The rabbi looked at me as if to say" Next time, ask for grape juice." Thanks, I'll remember that.



The year I turned ten , I became a member of  the select High Holiday choir. We  rehearsed during the last weeks of  summer, in preparation for the Jewish New Year in the early fall . Our synagogue was not at all air conditioned, so  we sweated as much as we sang.  Also, we never knew from year to year who the synagogue would hire as a cantor; we had to adapt to a new person's habits each time. One distinguished gentleman  sported a fedora and smoked foul smelling  black Parodi cigars, claiming they soothed his throat. Imagine someone doing that at choir practice today! Each cantor brought a special style to our choir and I learned something  from all of them.

 Singing for the holidays meant standing around a podium for at least three  hours on both days of Rosh Hashonah and Yom Kippur. Because it was often very warm, we were allowed to wear t-shirts under our robes. Even so, most of us came equipped with packets of Wet-wipes to cool us off. An even bigger challenge came on Yom Kippur, because upon turning thirteen you were obligated to fast from sunset to sunset.  Younger boys would rush home between the afternoon and evening service and grab a light snack to keep them going. For our efforts, the synagogue honored  us  with a small stipend ,depending on our years of singing in the choir. I honestly don't think the money made that much of a difference to me. I just loved  the intricate , sacred melodies and being part of the service.

Then, just before I entered high school, my high alto voice dropped an octave, and I  had to learn to be  a tenor. Mr. Squire had retired, and our leader was  Mr. Sher, a skilled choir master who had a more modern outlook. Instead of just using prayer books, he gave us complicated arrangements on sheet music. This took some getting used to, as  I struggled to gain control over  my new ,lower  voice. Thanks to my friend ,  Art, a tenor  with a beautiful voice and a college major in music, I was  soon able to sing the new part  with confidence. I  remained in Peter Sher's choir until end the of high school.

I regret to say that I never joined a choir in college; looking back, I guess I was too wrapped up in playing folk music on my guitar.It wasn't until much later,as an adult, that  I  once again lent  my voice to a synagogue choir. For a number of memorable years, I sang in the Sabbath evening and High Holiday choirs in  Buffalo Grove. We were led by a  cantor with a rich, beautiful voice, who had come to our synagogue complete  with his family of singers. Each of  his sons had real talent, and  Cantor Aberman  wisely built the choir around them.  Also, the cantor  was married to a woman with a gorgeous  voice. Even though our choir was all male, no one ever objected to Sandy's clear soprano from her seat in the front row.    Eventually ,each of the cantor's  sons  married,, had children and moved to the city. Finally when the cantor  and his wife moved to be closer to their sons and many grandchildren, the choir was disbanded.  I felt lost without a place to sing.

When our family considered  joining a new synagogue in Northbrook, one of my first questions was "Do you have a choir?" The answer was no, but that didn't deter me. I told the rabbi that I had some vocal experience, and he said that with practise, I could lead part of the Saturday services. After a few months, I thought I was ready, and we set a date for my debut as a soloist. Besides having to memorize all of the melodies, I had to be sure I pronounced the Hebrew correctly.

Fighting the old familiar butterflies, when the time came, I think I did fairly well.
Except, that is, when I had to return the Torah scroll to the ark while singing.
Leave it to me, I started to make a wrong turn and would have ended up singing to a wall, if it weren't for a friend who tapped me on the shoulder and turned me around.

One year, there actually was a holiday choir in the synagogue. We sang in the orthodox service, led by a cantor with a marvelous, high voice. Much to my dismay, this was a one time occurance. When the synagogue hired a new cantor, he sang by himself, but asked for volunteers to join him in the brief service that ended Yom Kippur.  A group of us came up and we had an impromptu choir. This tradition continued from year to year, but wasn't nearly enough to satisfy my passion for choral singing.

Just recently ,my wife suggested that I search for a real  choir to fill the void.. I scoured the internet for Jewish groups in our vicinity and found Kol Zimrah , a choral  group in the northern suburbs. Getting up my courage, I arranged for an audition. The  director gave me some scales to sing, asked me to read sheet music, then had me sing a song I had prepared from a prayer book. He must have liked what he heard, because a few minutes later he introduced me to the choir as the newest second tenor. I was delighted!

I sat down in the tenor section and immediately, the men on both sides of began to fill me in. Looking at a thick folio of music I was both impressed and overwhelmed at the complexity of the pieces I needed to learn.
Before I knew it, Richard, our director, raised his hands and fifty men and women instantly  filled the room their amazing voices. Michael, the tenor on my right, held up the score so I could see it and traced his finger over the notes he was singing. Slowly, I caught on, and before too long, began to softly follow his lead.
After a little while, I grew more courageous, and sang a bit louder. There was a tricky rest in one song that demanded everyone to stop singing for a beat. I , of course, blasted right through it. The director held up his finger as if to say, "that's one...."   After restarting the measure, I did it again. Richard shook his head and whispered, "That's two..."  The third time, I got it right. Everyone clapped, and, like a little kid, I pulled my kippah over my red face in embarrassment. From then on, I paid much closer attention to the director.

 Each time we began a new song, Richard  patiently worked with us to ensure we understood all the nuances in it:  rhythm, breath control, dynamics and the secret of blending into one beautiful voice..  This was hard work for me, but I really enjoyed it, and began to smile while I sang.

At the end of the evening, I was tired, but happy. As we packed up our music , a woman from the alto section came over to me. "Stuart, remember me?" she said, putting her arm around my shoulder. Her face was familiar, but I couldn't quite place it. " I'm Myra...I sang at your wedding."  I laughed in amazement and hugged her.

When we were married in August of 1976, my wife's friend brought her guitar and her sweet voice to our wedding. Myra sang and strummed and softly in Hebrew as we walked up to the chuppah, adding just the perfect touch to our  wedding ceremony.
After Maxine left her job as a social worker, Myra assumed her position. The years went by, and we lost touch with her.  Now, a lifetime later, she was back and in the choir I had just joined.

I strongly believe that everything in life is for a purpose. I know that this  seemingly chance reunion with Myra is a sign  I've found a wonderful new place to sing,