If I Were A Rich Man!

I realize that it doesn't translate well to the written word...but I consider myself a decent singer.  I can carry a tune, I usually remember most of the words, and I can belt out certain songs and not have people run away grabbing their pitchforks and torches.  There is one small problem with my singing voice however...I can only use it on certain occasions.  I know it would be funnier to say something like, "My singing voice scares away young and old alike!" but I want to be truthful.

I remember one time in my upper grade classroom when I was trying to have them slog through a rousing rendition of The Twelve Days Of Christmas.  We were stuck at day seven and there was no indication that this wasn't our last day.  I actually would have liked them to "slog" but I think their best effort could be described as "mumbleslur."  Websters defines mumbleslur as: a small series of incoherent sounds a preteen will make when forced to sing out loud.  I had a classroom full of students who very well could have been singing "meatball pancake, meatball pancake" for all I knew, and I just couldn't take it anymore.  I took a deep breath and joined in, "FIVE GOLDEN RINGS!!!  FOUR CALLING BIRDS..." I won't bore you with the details and I understand that department stores and sitcom reruns have the rights to Christmas in July.  Please bear with me, I'm almost done.

When I finished dragging the class through the remainder of the musical calendar (we made it in a day and a half) and playfully said something intelligent like, "We are going to have a little Christmas spirit in here if I have to pound it into you," my aide, Donna, said, "Wow!  Mr. Garrettt can sing."

Yes, Christmas Carols are one set of songs that I can belt out with the full power of my voice.  Unless Mary is leading the group...(more later)  My voice is low, deep you might say.  I don't want to brag, but I have been told that I have a voice for radio.  I have also been told that I have a face for radio but I don't want to open that painful can of worms right now.  My voice comes out a little deeper when I use what my daughter calls, 'the phone voice', and it comes out even deeper still on the few occasions that I sing.  Picture Darth Vader and Sam Elliot trying to sing.  That is me.  I look forward to Christmas because I think those songs are made for low singing folk like me...usually.  At my old church there was a wonderfully nice woman who had a great operatic voice.  She was the person in charge of leading the group one year.  We all assembled looking like we were going skiing at Aspen (which is ridiculous since we were actually in an overheated convalescent hospital in California).  We all had our lyrics.  Mary began to sing and everyone who was not an official member of the Vienna Boys Choir, on helium, was resigned to singing, "meatball pancake, meatball pancake."  The only way I would have hit the notes she wanted us to hit would have involved vise grips, an inflatable hemorrhoid donut, and weeks and weeks of bags of ice.  But I digress...

The real reason I wanted to tell you about my voice was to tell you about my car ride home last night.  Kristiana visited a friend in the mountains for the day and when it was time to pick her up we decided to make it a family event.  The fact that we were picking her up not fifty yards from an old fashioned ice cream parlor had nothing to do with it.  As we were driving home, ice cream in hand (except for Kristiana...who has the will power of a monk) Kristiana announced, "Dad, I am going to dye your beard!"  I couldn't just let it hang out there in the air so I said, "Umm no thanks honey."  She said that she could do it and it would match the rest of my hair. 
"Umm no thanks honey." 
"Why Not"
Oh no.  I am not a good liar.  My secret was going to come out. 
"Daaaad!  Why Nooooooot?"
Ok, here goes.  "Because I am secretly hoping that a musical producer will see my impressively graying beard and ask me to star as Tevye in his upcoming production of Fiddler on the Roof!"
To slow the uproarious laughter I burst into song...."If I were a rich man...."
Everyone stopped laughing, wiped their tears of joy, and pointed out the window at the Broadway producer who just happened to be driving by and had the standard "rich and famous" contract ready for me to sign. 

Well that is how it will go in the movie about my life.  What really happened was one of those silly times in the car when everyone started making up their own lyrics to the song.  Instead of 'biddy biddy bum' we substituted 'butter butter butter' and other nonsense words that would make Jerry Bock turn over in his grave.  (And if he isn't dead, he would die, and then turn over in his grave.) 

This was a car ride that I will not soon forget...and I get to star on Broadway!