Those April showers that come your way
They bring the flowers that bloom in May.
So if it’s raining, have no regrets.
It isn’t raining rain, you know—
It’s raining violets.
And when you see clouds upon the hills
You soon will see crowds of daffodils . . .
— Al Jolson (1886-1950)
You’d have to be nearly as old as I to recall Jolson. I remember exactly how he sounded from radio broadcasts, and we memorized the songs in Miss McKinney’s music class.
During the 1930’s Jolson was America’s biggest entertainer. He starred in The Jazz Singer, the first full-length talking movie, and was the first to entertain the troops during World War II. His style influenced Garland, Sinatra and Jerry Lee Lewis. His cheery tunes echoed the optimism of the times and made people feel good. Here’s another ditty:
When the red red robin comes
bob-bob-bobbin along—along–
There’ll be no more sobbin’
when he starts throbbin’ his old
sweet song.
Wake up, wake up, you sleepy
head!
Get up, get out of bed—
Cheer up, cheer up—the sun
is red.
Live, love, laugh and be happy . . .
From the blue jay’s scolding to the zoom of race cars, the Mays of my life have been rich in sounds. The quiet passages enhance the grand symphony of life. Mother always said in early May, “Listen! The wrens are back. Doesn’t he sound as sweet as a canary?” Wrens nest anywhere. After their battered house fell apart, Mother cut a hole in the toe of an old boot. For many years she used a big dipper gourd. An Irvington neighbor, Lucille Morand, had to buy a new clothespin bag because they nested in her old one.
We have a wren house, and they arrived as regularly as clockwork near Mothers’ Day. Last year I listened every day: no wrens either here or in other towns. It was unsettling. A little something precious was missing. The wrens were a symbol of my mother whose voice I still hear. Good news: right on schedule, our wrens returned this year! Also, a pair of them chased some sparrows out of Vicki’s bluebird house and took up residence.
Picture this: And the drummers drum . . . “Brrrup-bup-bup-bup! Brrrup -bup-bup-bup! Buppity, buppity, buppity, brrrup bup-bup-bup!” A member of the “B” band, I am marching along Main St. on the way to Knightstown’s Glen Cove cemetery for a Memorial Day ceremony, trying to play a baritone, a large horn. My parents refused to rent an instrument for me after I failed Mrs. Herkless’ piano lessons, so Mr. Thomas, the band director, kindly loaned me a battered baritone.
The hook-and-eye that holds my cape together has come undone. I march along out of step, frantically trying to keep the cape from falling off while managing the big baritone . . . I felt as if every spectator were watching my struggle. My band career was a brief one!
We listened to the 500 Mile Race on the radio. In addition to “Taps” and “Back Home Again in Indiana,” there was this little ditty: “Rinso White, Rinso White—Sing a little washday song!”
When I was a Junior, speech teacher Joyce Skaggs dragooned me into reciting “In Flanders Fields” during the Memorial Day ceremony. I cannot recite poetry well, and I was mortified by my inept recitation of the poignant poem that was written by a Canadian physician after the second World War I battle of Ypres where many were gassed. Memorial Day should mean something more than the race and cookouts. Lest we forget those who have served —
In Flanders fields the poppies
blow
Between the crosses, row on row,
That mark our place; and in the
sky
The larks, still bravely singing, fly
Scarce heard amid the guns below.
We are the Dead. Short days ago
We lived, felt dawn, saw sunset
glow,
Loved and were loved, and now
we lie
In Flanders fields.
wclarke@comcast.net