The Christmas Cantata (The Liturgical Mysteries) Read online

  The Christmas Cantata

  A St. Germaine Christmas Entertainment

  By Mark Schweizer

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  SJMP |BOOKS

  The Christmas Cantata

  Copyright ©2011 by Mark Schweizer

  All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system or transmitted in any form or by any means electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording or otherwise, without the prior written permission of the publisher.

  Published by

  SJMP|BOOKS

  www.sjmpbooks.com

  P.O. Box 249

  Tryon, North Carolina, 28782

  ISBN 978-0-9844846-5-2

  Poems by Sara Teasdale (1884-1933)

  Stars (1920)

  Barter (1917)

  The Kiss (1915)

  Chapter 1

  November, 1937

  She had just returned from Paris. It had been a grueling journey, although the sea voyage hadn't been too bad, taking a little over a week to make the crossing from Le Havre to New York. Her father had booked her passage on the S.S. Normandie, the flagship of the French line Compagnie Générale Transatlantique. Only two years old, the ship was a marvel, the most powerful steam turboelectric powered vessel ever built. Even so, she had found the passage trying. Following her arrival in New York, she'd boarded a train, then another, then yet another, before disembarking in Asheville for the car trip home.

  The young woman had departed for Europe two years earlier on the Graf Zeppelin, a luxury afforded to her by her father after her graduation from Asheville Normal and Teacher's College, but to return on a zeppelin was out of the question. Not after what happened to the Hindenburg the previous May.

  The old railroad man required that his daughter get a teaching degree. Study in music was not an option. She had swallowed her disappointment and struck a deal with her father. She'd get her teaching certificate, but then be allowed to travel in Europe for two years after its completion. She promised her parents that she would visit many countries and that it would broaden her horizons. It wasn't an odd request for the time. Many young people headed to Europe and other exotic venues in the gap between education and settling into adulthood.

  She was never in want of money during her excursion. The family was well off, Father having been employed his entire career by the Vanderbilts, and he didn't hold onto the purse strings too tightly where his little girl was concerned. He would be eulogized many years later as a doting father and husband, a good businessman, and someone who put his daughter's welfare above all else. This was the truth. Why else would he have insisted on the best piano teachers in western North Carolina from the time she was six years old? Why else would he have made sure she spoke French, German, and a little Italian? Why else would he have put his foot down and guided her away from music and toward the teaching profession when it became clear that she wanted to have a career? Better a teacher than a secretary, or worse, an itinerant musician, he said.

  She was as good as her word and did, in fact, travel across the continent of Europe for the first two months, visiting many countries. Then, feeling the need for a home-base, she'd settled in Paris and, on a whim, applied for a job playing piano for a few evenings a week at Maison Prunier on Avenue Victor Hugo. Although jazz was all the rage, the owner of the restaurant was an aficionado of Mozart, and she knew all but one of the boy genius' eighteen piano sonatas from memory. It was on one of those evenings that she met Nadia Boulanger.

  It was actually a woman named Annette Dieudonné who approached the piano after the girl played the final chords of one of her favorites: Number 18, the one in D major. Mozart's last.

  "You play beautifully," Annette said in perfect English. "We understand from our waiter that you are an American. My friend would like to meet you. Nadia Boulanger? Perhaps you know of her? Would you care to join us?"

  The young woman's heart skipped a beat. Of course she had heard of Nadia Boulanger, student of Fauré and Widor, friend of Stravinsky and Dukas, teacher of Aaron Copland, Roy Harris, Virgil Thomson, and a host of others. Of course she would like to join them. Of course, of course!

  She spent the next half hour answering questions. What was her name? (She answered "Elle" even though it was not. Her own name, she suddenly decided, was too pedestrian, too American.) How did you come to be in Paris? Where are you staying? With whom have you studied? Gerard Aguillon? Gerard is one of my dearest friends! In North Carolina, you say? Composition as well as piano? I knew he was in America, but Asheville of all places. I thought I recognized the phrasing in the Adagio! Oh, don't take offense, my dear! It takes years to find your voice and you are still a baby. Did you know that Elle is my cousin's name? You simply must come to supper!

  The next twenty-two months were spent in blissful study: traditional harmony, score reading at the piano, species counterpoint, analysis, and finally, composition. "You need an established language," Mademoiselle Boulanger told her. "Then, within that established language, you will discover the liberty to be yourself. It is always necessary to be yourself – that is a mark of genius."

  She didn't tell her father what she was doing, but she secretly wrote and told her mother everything.

  * * *

  St. Germaine, North Carolina, was in a crabby mood. Yes, the whole town. If a temperament could affect an entire populace, "crabby" was what St. Germaine was. Noylene's new personal astrologer, a woman named Goldi Fawn Birtwhistle, blamed it on the convergence of Pluto and the third moon of Jupiter.

  Goldi Fawn was a hair professional and the latest to join the cast at the Beautifery, Noylene Fabergé-Dupont-McTavish's Oasis of Beauty. Goldi Fawn was a woman of generous proportions with an unknown complexion for whom the word "pancake" obviously had multiple and disparate connotations. She would freely admit that she wasn't as adept with make-up as she was with hair, but, as she liked to point out to her customers, her own hair was her "crowning glory." The color was Medium Champagne Blonde No. 3 and it sat piled high on her head with untamed wisps dangling down in what Goldi Fawn described as her come-hither "Delilah" look.

  "First Corinthians 11:15," she'd say to whoever was sitting in her chair. "A woman's hair is her crowning glory and I oughta know. I had my own hair studio in Johnson City. You're from Johnson City? Well, you know that liquor store by the railroad tracks next to the Righteous Arm of God Pentecostal Holiness Church of the Redeemer? You do? Well, right behind that liquor store was where I had my studio. It was called Crowning Glory Hairstyles. That's right! I don't mind advertising my faith wherever I can. Lookee here. I've even got a Jesus Fish on my hair dryer..."

  Goldi Fawn saw no problem in combining the Christian faith and astrology. "God made the stars, and it's my spiritual gift to understand what they have to say to us."

  The resulting exchange was inevitable. "Astrology is of the devil," Darla would say. Darla was one chair over and another of the licensed Women of Beauty whose mission was to offer glamour and allurement to the needy females of St. Germaine.

  "There will be signs in the sun, moon, and stars," Goldi Fawn would reply, using one of the many scripture references at her disposal thanks to her penchant for writing them on slips of paper with various colored markers and thumb-tacking them to the wall around her station. "Just lookit," she'd say, pointing to one of her Bible verses. "It's right there in Luke 21:25. And I won't even mention the fact that the wise men from the east, the ones looking for the baby Jesus were..." she paused for effect..."yes, I believe I'm correct in saying this...astrologers." She'd give a self-satisfied smile while she smeared some color onto a piece of tinfoil. "Or are you
going to tell me I am mistaken? I can show you several scholastic references if you're interested. And I have many other scriptures you might like to consider."

  "I'll give you a scripture," Darla would mutter under her breath, all the while eyeing her sharpest pair of scissors resting on the counter. "Thou shalt not suffer a witch to live."

  According to Goldi Fawn, the aforementioned heavenly convergence was responsible for the attitude of the entire town, and that attitude—make no mistake—was "crabby." Pete Moss, owner of the Slab Café, thought that the crabbiness might have something to do with the increased bombardment of positive ions from outer space; these ions funneled directly toward St. Germaine. Also included in Pete's theory were sunspots, an ever-widening hole in the ozone layer, the federal deficit, armadillo migration, and the cancellation of two long-running soap operas. "My God...Erica," he'd say, close to tears, his face buried in his hands. "What will I do without Erica?"

  Usually, in St. Germaine, the three weeks before Christmas were marked by an increase in good feelings toward one's fellow man.

  Not this year.

  * * *

  St. Germaine is our small village situated in the Appalachian Mountains in northwest North Carolina. There is a downtown square that gives structure to the town's layout and in the center of the square is Sterling Park; a couple of acres of grass; seasonal flowers beds; large maple, poplar, and chestnut trees; a white gazebo; and a statue of Harrison Sterling, the mayor who, in 1961, talked the city council into retaining all of the downtown edifices by way of levying hefty fines on those owners intent on embracing the then-current trend of slapping aluminum siding on everything, or, even worse, tearing it down and replacing it with "modern architecture." Since it was financially disastrous for the merchants to tear down their stores or cover them up, they restored them instead. The result was a mixture of quaint and beautiful buildings surrounding the park.

  The largest building on the square, the nineteenth-century courthouse, anchored the structures on the east side. The police station stood adjacent, and shops and eating establishments were nestled side by side around the square like a full-sized Dickensian village. The next largest (and the newest) building was St. Barnabas Episcopal Church which looked almost directly across the park at the courthouse. Although the church was only a few years old, the architect and the builders had replicated the facade of the old church, the one lost in a terrible fire, down to the last detail, even going so far as to source the stone from the same quarry as the original structure. Besides the church, the St. Germaine Downtown Association membership included the Slab Café, Schrecker's Jewelry, the Bear and Brew, a flower boutique, the Ginger Cat, Eden Books, the Appalachian Music Shoppe, the library, Holy Grounds (our Christian Coffee emporium), Noylene's Beautifery, several lawyers' offices, and a handful of antique and mountain-crafty stores.

  St. Germaine is dependent on the tourist trade. We have tourists in the summer who are trying to escape the heat of Florida, Georgia, and even South Carolina. They stay from mid-June through August. The next batch comes into town for leaf season around the second week of October and they come by the thousands. Leaf season (when the leaves change from green to their autumn hues and the foliage is at its most beautiful) lasts for about four weeks, give or take. The five bed and breakfasts in town are booked months and sometimes years in advance. Then, starting at Thanksgiving, the throngs begin their thronging on the weekends. Closer to Christmas, these visitors extend their stay for a few days on either end and the town is packed.

  The principal reason for their migration is shopping, but that isn't the only draw. St. Germaine offers something that can't be found in many other places. The Germans have a word for it: Gemütlichkeit. Its closest English equivalent is the word "coziness," however, rather than merely describing a place that is compact, well-heated, or nicely furnished (a cozy room for example), Gemütlichkeit connotes the notion of belonging, social acceptance, well-being, cheerfulness, the absence of anything hectic, and the opportunity to spend quality time with friends and family. This is St. Germaine during the Christmas season.

  From Thanksgiving weekend through New Year's Day, downtown St. Germaine is decorated as if Martha Stewart had gone on a holiday rampage. The park, storefronts, streetlights, abandoned cars, trees, bushes, and everything else—nailed down or not—are festooned with pine and fir garlands, tens of thousands of lights, ribbons, wreaths, and ornaments of every size and description. One year, Nancy Parsky, my lieutenant, even found a dead turtle (she surmised by the smell that it had met its end sometime in October) lying in the gutter with a red bow stuck to its shell and a blinking Rudolph nose tied to its head. And decorating is just the cinnamon on the eggnog.

  It is the town's mission to make everyone feel welcome. From the oldest resident to the newest, locals and visitors, tourists and shoppers, all are gladly and warmly received. Shopping in St. Germaine doesn't have that hurried, frantic feeling that the malls and the mega-stores seem to produce. Yes, we have lines, but if you find yourself having to wait in one, someone will be happy to chat with you, any number of people will wish you a Merry Christmas and offer to hold your packages for a while, or an employee might walk up and give you a cup of hot chocolate and a hug. If you can't find something for that special someone on your shopping list, the owner of the store might suggest you try the Ginger Cat down the street, or even call into Blowing Rock because she saw "just the thing you're looking for" the last time she was shopping there.

  Is all this goodwill an accident of geography or maybe a Brigadoon-like aberration? It is not. It is a well-thought-out, careful plan instituted about fifteen years earlier by Pete Moss (the mayor of St. Germaine at the time). Pete saw it as a cross between It's a Wonderful Life and Field of Dreams, telling the city council that people were longing for small town America and "if we build it, they will come." It took a few years to implement Pete's plan—to get everyone on board—but once started, the goodwill was self-perpetuating, and it didn't take long for word to get around.

  St. Germaine has added various Christmas events over the years to keep things fresh; the outdoor Living Nativity presented in alternate years by either the Kiwanis or Rotary Club, rival civic organizations; the Christmas Parade, hosted by the club that isn't in charge of the Nativity; and, last year, the St. Lucy Walk on December 13th in support of acid-reflux research. This was an idea that Vernell Lombard, a newly-elected member of the city council, had come up with. Her husband, Buddy, had just been told by his doctor that his heartburn was most probably caused by acid reflux.

  "Why doesn't he just stop eatin' like a hog?" asked Cynthia Johnsson, the current mayor, when Vernell brought the proposal in front of the council at their September meeting. "I waited on him down at the Slab Café and he put away half a dozen chili dogs, a large order of onion rings, potato salad, and two slabs of apple pie." Cynthia, in addition to her part-time job as mayor, was a professional waitress and belly dancer. Usually Cynthia was well-spoken and used the King's English albeit with a slight North Carolina accent, but when she "got in thar amongst 'em" as she said, her dialect dropped right into the vernacular of the rest of the city council. "I saw Buddy tear through that food like a human garbage disposal. If he'd stopped to take a breath, one of them six wieners might have stood a fighting chance."

  "Acid reflux is a disease," said Vernell, her mouth set in a hard line. "Like brain cancer, or erectile disfunction. There just has to be more research. Anyway, Buddy was in a hurry. He's only got a half hour for lunch. Let's vote on it."

  "Fine," said Cynthia, throwing her hands into the air with the realization that she'd never get the forty-five minutes back that the council had just spent arguing about the project.

  "Fine," she repeated. "Let's vote."

  In the end, the vote was five to four in favor of the project and the St. Lucy Walk was scheduled and well publicized. St. Lucy isn't so much remembered for suffering from acid reflux as she is for having her eyes removed and served up
on a plate just prior to her head being cut off, but St. Lucy's Day was in December (December 13th to be exact), and would fit in well with the St. Germaine Christmas celebration scheme. St. Lucy's Day is now most often celebrated in the Scandinavian countries by young girls dressed in white who walk through the town wearing a crown of lit candles on their heads. Once Vernell discovered that little tidbit, she invited all the girls in town between the ages of twelve and twenty-one to participate, providing they could supply their own white gown and bring their own candles. It was a very beautiful sight and we had quite a large turnout, not only among the girls who were happy to march in support of a worthy cause, but also the folks who dropped coins into their red velvet purses, purses that Vernell had made the night before, as they walked along their route.

  The fund-raiser went as smoothly as could be expected. That is to say that only two of the girls lit their hair on fire and had to be doused by the chaperones standing on each corner of the square brandishing CO2 fire extinguishers. No one was seriously hurt, although there was talk at the Beautifery that wigs might be needed all the way through Groundhog Day. Vernell blamed the accidents on Noylene who was in charge of coiffing the girls for the event. "That Noylene uses too much hairspray!" she said. "Them girls was walkin' fire-bombs."

  The St. Lucy Walk raised $232.45 and Vernell promised to write a check and send it to the Society for the Movement toward Acid Reflux Prevention (SMARP), headquartered in Pascagoula, Mississippi. The prevailing thought, though, was that Buddy spent the money on hot dogs.

  The council had decided not to sponsor the St. Lucy Walk this year, but the Living Nativity (it was the Rotarians' turn) had been scheduled for the third week in December, and the Christmas Parade (this year, hosted by the Kiwanians) was always a big hit. The economy was better than it had been for a couple of years. People were pouring into town and goodwill and friendliness should have been the order of the day. But this year was different. This year, St. Germaine was just plain crabby.