The following Christmas story occurred 81 years ago in Rochester, NY. Like many of you, memories of Christmas are with me. May your New Year be filled with joy, peace, and love.
Blessings, Dotti
Christmas Choir 1943
At Christmas time, the children’s choir at our church, joined other children’s church choirs in the city of Rochester NY to sing at the Eastman Theater. These were wondrous nights for me as a young child. The Rochester Philharmonic Orchestra accompanied the children choir as well as other choral groups in a festive evening of Christmas music. Regardless of snowstorms or bitter cold nights, all seats in the theater were filled, including the standing room only section.
I recall the Eastman Theater as a great theater house reminiscent of a a Vienna opera house on a winter night. Inside, the Eastman Theater was as opulent as a European palace with marble floors and gold filigree iron banister staircases. Gold leaved rotundas with fresco paintings embellishing the walls and above the audience seating, a massive chandelier with electric candles reflecting thousands of draped crystals.
It was war time – WW 2. My Dad worked three jobs to support the war effort and feed his family. My Mother had congenital heart problems, and she tired easily. Her concerned doctor, Dr. Dorrance, made weekly house calls, giving her B-12 shots, to boost her energy. My Dad was given a military deferment because of my Mother’s health but was required to work in a defense plant.
The Thursday before the Christmas performances, I would bring home my choir blouse from church so my mother could wash and starch the blouse. No first-floor laundry room or washer and dryer in the 40s, only the lowly wash tub and hand wringer in the dirt floor cellar. My Mother would make the trip to the cellar and wash and hand wring my choir blouse. Then dipping into a starch solution, she hung it near the coal furnace to dry.
She wanted her little girl to look perfect.
Ironing in the 40s took skill. Danger lurked each time the iron touched the blouse. There was little room for error. The blouse could be scorched if the iron was too hot. Irons did not have the temperature options we have now, so my Mother adjusted the heat by flicking water on the iron to determine if it were too hot.
After an hour of cautiously ironing the blouse and clipping any threads that dangled, the blouse was ready, with no scorch marks. Covering it with an old bed sheet, she hung the ironed and starched blouse on the bedroom doorknob and with an anxious voice, she warned my Brother and me, not to touch the blouse. Filled with fear that disaster could strike the choir blouse, I prayed the blouse would arrive at the theater, perfect, without being ruined by my Brother or myself or being splashed by slush in the street.
On the day of the performance, it took my Mother most of the day to get my Brother and me ready. My Mother’s custom was to turn the gas stove on, to ward off the cold in the kitchen. Bathing my Brother first, she sat him in front of the opened oven door, to stay warm. I remember her nurturing touch as she soaped my skin in the bath and washed my hair. After my bath, she sat me on the stool, next to my Brother, drying me off and curling my hair into locks around her finger.
On occasions like this, my Mother bought us new socks and underwear. Strange custom, as I think back. Black ‘Mary Janes’ were also fitting for these occasions, but it was war time and rations allowed children only two pairs of shoes a year. She chose brown oxfords for winter and white ones for summer. I wore my brown Stride Rite shoes for this reason, with a new Christmas dress and my dress snowsuit.
My Brother was too young to really want to go to such a performance, but we had no family close by, so she bundled him up in his two-piece snow suit, heavy boots, scarf and mittens connected with clips to his coat sleeves. He looked like a life size doll, with his bright blue eyes, rosy cheeks, thick curly hair and a pouty face.
My Mother did not drive, so most of the time we took the bus or if we were sick, she hired a taxi. It was probably just as well, as my Mother was a poor driver. As a matter of fact, it wasn’t until she was in her mid-forties that she finally decided to take her driving test, even though she had been driving for several years. Her poor driving resulted in her rear ending another car during the test. Either out of fear or a kind heart, the examiner passed her anyway.
Bundled up, she instructed my brother and me to stand at the bay window to watch for the taxi. To pass the time, we blew our breath on the window and then scribbled in the condensation. When the taxi arrived, my Mother, weighed down by her heavy mutton coat, with the starched choir blouse, covered with a sheet in one hand and her two charges in her other hand, she cautiously walked down the wooden porch steps and across the icy sidewalk to the taxi. Cars, as I remember, never were warm or well-ventilated in the winter. The ride to the theater made me queasy, with the mix of heat, cigarette smoke and gasoline, as well as the anticipation of the evening. Thankfully, the trip was short.
I wrote this story originally about my experience of singing at Christmas in the Eastman Theater, as a child. The story evolved into a story about my Mother. Her whole life she was physically frail. In addition she was bipolar, and was in the state hospital many times during her life. I choose to remember the good times with her and her nurturing love she gave to all of us. She lived unto she was 97 years old. I dedicate this to her.
Dotti Moyer