Livin' la Vida Musical

Finally, a job I was qualified to do. I couldn’t believe my good luck that someone else hadn’t snapped up the opportunity. Sure, there was no pay involved but the perks sounded heavenly. Three days in the mountains with none of the distractions of home: no driving, no cooking, no cleaning, no laundry, and no errands. It almost qualified as a spa vacation…

Just me, fresh clean pine-scented breezes, a good book…and sixty singing teenagers to chaperone. I would be living my own personal Sound of Music with the concert choir from the Southern California Children’s Chorus.

Julie Andrews, eat your heart out.

I’ve never been on a chartered bus before, but I liked the idea of it. Reason #1 was there was a bathroom onboard. Woo-hoo! No need to ration the Aquafina or sit cross-legged through Corona. Reason #2 was this bus driver absolutely had to drive slower than my husband. Therefore, I could relax, listen to the kids sing, and enjoy the ride.

And I did enjoy the concept of riding the bus all the way until I actually boarded in Costa Mesa. I don’t know if it was the diesel fumes or the lack of air-conditioning or the sight of South Coast Plaza receding in the distance, but suddenly I wondered if this was really going to be the MGM musical experience I signed on for.

The bus driver did drive slower than my husband—about seventy miles per hour slower. That’s because she forgot her transponder. Trapped in the #2 lane on the 91. It seemed like a good time to break into song. Instead the jumping bean—I mean boy-- in front of me managed to ram my right knee twice. I wanted to cry, but we were in the Inland Empire now. Time to be tough.

We arrived after dark. Luckily my cabin had electricity, heat, and running water. It also had seven girls I was supposed to keep in order: three altos, four sopranos. What perfect timing for “Whistle While You Work” or a few bars of “The hills are alive with the sound of music.”

But no. Instead, they talked about “hotties.” I had to laugh out loud. For me, “hotties” is a difficult word to pronounce with a straight face. I think my guffaw might have offended my charges. They turned on me. “So what do you call a hot guy?”

I went back thirty years. “When I was your age, we called them foxes.”

They howled in disbelief. “You mean, like the animal?” I guess, in retrospect, it does sound sort of ridiculous. But no dumber than “hottie.”

Now that we had laughed at each other, we were sufficiently bonded. Maybe we could sing. It’d be like the sisters in “Fiddler on the Roof.” But no, they wanted to tell scary stories, worry about non-existent bears, and reminisce about preschooler cartoons. So that’s what we did.

The next morning we assembled in the cafeteria. There were other retreat groups there also, all adults. They were probably expecting quiet time to reflect over their scrambled eggs. Although we only took up about a third of the room, we made up for it in energy.

Ok, the kids were a little boisterous, kind of loud, slightly obnoxious in the way that only teenagers can be. We were getting looks from the other side of the room. They weren’t super friendly. They were probably praying, “Please God. Make them go home before lunch.” That was a good thing since this was a Christian Camp and prayer was encouraged.

The kitchen lady came out and asked for a volunteer to say the blessing. Our leader, Miss Lori, stood up and simply said, “We would like to sing our thanks.”

I didn’t know anything about this. Kids stood up all around me, nonchalant. No choir robes, no sheet music. Just rumpled teens in baseball hats and baggy sweats, some holding coffee, some leaning against their tables. They didn’t bother to move to the front of the room. They just opened their mouths.

And let the music pour out.

Heads jerked around. Eyes widened. Jaws dropped open. By some trick of sound, this rag-tag bunch had instantly transformed into angels singing in Latin from on high. Those folks on the other side of the room, who were only expecting a quick “amen,” were stunned.

There I was, sitting right in the middle of all this unexpected glorious music, magically part of it. It was truly a blessing. Then it was over and the teens were bolting for the bacon.

It’s great living in a musical. I can’t wait for “White Christmas.”