]The church was Lutheran, the gleaming hardwood interior austere, the middle class parish small. Nonetheless, it wasn’t uncommon for hired musicians from parts unknown to grace our Sunday service. Sopranos made frequent cameos, thankfully relieving one devoted parishioner of too many off key upper register solos. But if you were betting money, the heavy favorite was Señor B, who would don a choir robe and warble a trembling but passionate tenor vibrato over the pews.
On Easter it could be a student trumpet line blasting down the center aisle straight from the street. On Christmas a classically trained boy soprano opened with “Once in Royal David’s City.” This all thanks to choir director and organist extraordinaire Miss R-F who, against all odds, made one church in NJ swell with unrivaled celestial sounds.
Incredibly this little church housed a majestic 900+ pipe organ. Bitter battles to keep the aged and valuable instrument in working condition provoked a ton of infighting over what seemed to be an unachievable expensive for a very pragmatic congregation. And the elders also bickered heatedly about continuing to pay an organist and, horror of horrors, those side hustle musicians she managed to unearth.
Miraculously, both the melodious organ and the marvelous Miss R-F prevailed. And boy, did her magic fingers rock that thing. My devout family did not know that what kept me church going in a front row seat was Miss R-F’s playlist, down to every hymn flourish and liturgical sound byte. Her preludes, postludes, offertories were glorious. I joined the Junior Choir.
Miss R-F demanded your best effort-taxing her choirs with challenging and beautiful music. Me? I came from a large Italian household that exploded into song. Not just in the shower. Wherever. Whenever. At first, my vocal contributions didn’t give Ms. R-F any reason to celebrate. I belted my part out loud. Way-y-y loud. After many gentle-ok maybe firm-redirects, she recorded a rehearsal. I listened to one asinine braying cow. Point made, I morphed into a proper contributing alto.
I adored her. But she was an oddity to a working-class 10-year -old. It was a time when two last names were not commonly used. She oozed propriety and restraint. Her voice crackled and tinkled when she spoke. She peered out from wire-rimmed glasses with that unmistakeable faraway look of someone whose whole life is music. And to boot, she lived in the fancy town bordering ours. THE town, with more money per capita, not to mention a ton of important New York celebs. So I was surprised when she invited the kid choir to her house for a picnic.
She lived in a stone castle of a house, surrounded by bright green lawns and numerous flower gardens. Of course we rolled and tumbled loudly in the yards. She put out a lovely spread: tiny sandwiches, bigger cookies, fresh lemonade. Then we got to tour the house, full to the brim with antiques and of course a glistening grand piano, which she played for us.
When another woman softly appeared to listen, she was introduced to us as Miss R-F ’s live-in sister. It could be that our boisterous kid presence may have been the reason she quickly retreated to her study, but I picked up on a different discomfort in the air. As I look back now, these were the times when so many were forced to live a quiet lie even in their very own homes.
Yes, everything about Miss R-F was rare and extraordinary, in the best of ways. To this day, on Christmas Eve I make a point of setting the radio dial to A Festival of Nine Lessons and Carols, live from King's College Chapel. I only tune in for the first hymn, the one that opens with a single boy soprano singing acapella. Thanks to her, I tear up every time I listen. At full volume.