Christmas Assembly

In the 1960’s, every public elementary school in my town held a
Christmas assembly each year on the last school day before the holiday
vacation.  These programs took place in the
dark old basement auditoriums for the benefit our mothers, some of whom came
with toddlers in tow, and an odd grandparent or two.  Fathers were usually not torn away from their
important jobs for the schools’ little daytime performances and yet, the
audience was always filled to capacity. 
Each class was required to learn and perform a Christmas carol
accompanied by Mrs. Ambrose, the soft spoken grey-haired first grade teacher
who played the old piano with enthusiastic flourishes.

 

In third grade, I had the good fortune to have a fresh from
college, hip teacher named Miss Donnelly. 
She became known for her innovative method of teaching mathematics, and
the shiny new car she drove to our school from Boston each morning, a blazing
blue Mustang convertible. Along with the spiffy car and pioneering math
instruction, Miss Donnelly was kind and we very much wanted to please our
pretty young teacher who in turn had high expectations for us.

 

Before Christmas, Miss Donnelly told us that we would not
only be singing at assembly but we would perform a short dance as well.  She paired us up randomly and I was instantly
dismayed by her choice for my dance partner. Earl was much taller than I and was
most commonly known for the spit balls he regularly crisscrossed across the
classroom from his hollowed out Bic pens.  I had been his beneficiary once or twice and
because of his stealth, even eagle-eyed Miss Donnelly had yet to catch on. I groaned inwardly.

 

In the weeks leading up to Christmas, each class was given an
hour a day to practice with Miss Ambrose at the piano. The
excitement was building as our choreographer, Miss Donnelly, included several
pirouettes in unison to match the lilting Christmas carol we were learning to sing. Surprisingly,
Earl attended to me rather well, with his alert watchfulness over
errant dance partners whose pirouettes threatened to overlap ours. I stopped
fretting  until Miss Donnelly gave us our
final instructions on the morning of the assembly.

 

We gathered together in the hallway outside the auditorium,
all looking festive in the required costuming: girls in red skirts and white
blouses, boys in black pants, white shirts, and green and red ties. But Miss
Donnelly warned us darkly that there were to be several lit Christmas trees
dotting the stage that had been empty during our rehearsals and woe betide to
any pair that caused a tree to topple over during the performance.  As I clasped my icy cold hand in Earl’s, I
could not imagine how the trees fit onto the old wooden stage that also
included two heavy velvet stage curtains of peacock blue, which already erased
a good chunk of dance space.

 

Soon Mrs. Ambrose called us to the stage.  Our mothers’ faces were open with
anticipation as Miss Donnelly stood on the cement floor below the stage, her
arms raised in directorial fashion. We began. The further along our performance
got, the more we relaxed helped along by the encouraging crowd of family
watching from below.  But it was then
that Earl caught the heel of my shoe which caused a tumble which edged me precariously
close to one of the trees upon the stage, the branch of which scrapped my
shoulder.  I felt my heart skip a beat, I
heard the audience gasp, and I watched the tree teeter totter in slow
motion on its stand.  But just then, I
felt Earl’s flat hand on the small of my back and I steadied, quickly catching
up after only one missed dance step. In a moment we were back in sync, the tree
stopped its terrible quaking and remained upright, and the performance was
over.  I looked down at Miss
Donnelly.  She was beaming up at us, eyes
brimming with tears, hands clapping wildly. 
The audience was on their feet with collective relief and laughter.  Our bow to them was deep and well-earned. 

 

When we returned to school after our long Christmas vacation
week, Miss Donnelly thanked us for our performance. But then we took out our
times table workbooks.  We were to begin 1965
with the number eight.  I stole a glance
over to Earl.  On the top of his desk, the new Bic pens he must
have received in his Christmas stocking were lined up like soldiers.