The Faux Pas That Gave Me Pause

Something was wrong.

The congregation applauded, giving me a standing ovation.

I returned to my seat next to the pastor’s wife on the pulpit, tingling with joy as I scanned the smiling faces of my former classmates, teachers, and friends in the audience, satisfied that my talk had been well-received.

The mistress of ceremonies stepped up to the podium, congratulated me as the Women’s Day speaker, and then turned to the pastor’s wife, “Do you have any closing words, Mrs. Huntley?”

Never moving from her seat, Mrs. Huntley motioned “No” jerking her head left and right, lips pursed, without uttering a word.

Seventeen years had passed since I had been back to my childhood church in St. Louis after my family moved to California, but I could still read her body language.

She was upset. I couldn’t figure out why.

I had just received my Ph.D. so I was clearly invited as the ‘hometown-kid-makes-good” of that year.

What could she be upset about all these years later?

When we left the sanctuary to go to the dinner prepared for the congregation, I pushed it out of my mind, and just focused on greeting and catching up with many friends, some of whom were no longer members of that church.

After dinner, I flew back to Los Angeles eager to share with my mother how much I enjoyed delivering the speech and connecting with friends.

My mother picked up the phone promptly and before I could finish, “I’m back,” she announced “Mrs. Huntley called me.”

“Really? That’s great,” I said.

“She said she was very hurt that you didn’t mention the Treblettes in your speech,” my mother continued.

“Wha-a-a-t?” I said.

(I was suddenly sucked back in time like in a sci-fi movie)

I was eight years old when, fancying herself a songwriter and musical director, the pastor’s wife formed the first-ever children’s choir in St. Louis, MO, named it The Treblettes, and recruited my mother to be the accompanist.

My two youngest sisters and I were automatically members, and along with over twenty other youngsters astonished audiences and congregations by performing not just the typical religious songs, but also anthems like Handel’s Messiah.

During many choir practices my mother was the one who taught us the songs measure by measure, while she played the accompaniment, helping us memorize the words and music.

Mrs. Huntley, as first lady of the church, was often absent from those rehearsals while she and her husband were travelling to domestic and foreign destinations as special guests of other churches, conferences, etc.

I was always proud of how my mother mastered the art of teaching a flock of kids such intricate music, making sure we got the words, enunciation, timing, and fine points exactly right.

In addition, while we often performed in our custom-made robes, when we gave special presentations, we wore formal dresses made by the parents, grandparents or someone hired by dressmakers. My mother made the dresses for me and my two sisters.

My mother never got the credit she deserved for the success of that choir.

 Now it was my turn to be upset.

After all the years since we had moved from St. Louis, I didn’t recall that Mrs. Huntley had stayed in touch with my mother.

And yet, she called to air her upset about what she considered an unforgivable omission in my Mother’s Day speech.

I was a 34-year old woman, not a little girl she could report to my mother for misbehavior.

Wasn’t it enough that she had gotten most of the glory for forming and leading that choir all those years ago, while my mother, an excellent musician, did the grunt work behind the scenes.

When we performed some of Mrs. Huntley's originals my mother had to fix some of those to make them work, One such song was "Easter Eggs in the Christmas Tree." Don't ask.

Every week of my childhood under my mother’s guidance we had learned every note, word, and pause firmly memorized since we always performed without any sheet music.

To this day, I know exactly how many "hallelujahs" there are before a pause for the final one at the end of Handel’s Messiah. Our children’s choir always got it right.

It was my mother who was due praise for her role in the excellence of that choir.

 Whew!

Now I was mad.

Mrs. Huntley had plenty of opportunity to voice her feelings at that service on Women’s Day.

After all, she was the pastor’s wife. Without ruining the mood of the day, she could have pointed out that I neglected to mention the part the children’s choir played in my development and success in life (I’m guessing that’s what she craved).

Instead, she kept silent at the service, but when she returned home complained to my mother halfway across the country, as if she was reporting a little girl who had misbehaved.

i abruptly ended the call to my mother and  called Mrs.. Huntley, ready to unleash my anger about what I thought about her behavior.

A few expletives were competing to lead the tirade. Yes! Even to the preacher’s wife!

Her phone rang and rang.

It’s just as well they didn’t own an answering machine yet or else my outburst would have been immortalized.

I eventually hung up, but I was still steaming.

A faux pas, indeed.

And here I am 45 years later writing about it.

Clearly, I’m over it now.

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This is one of 52 memories in my life story that I added to my growing collection on Storied, the platform I use to save my memories until I'm ready to publish them.

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