A woman who claimed to be a chimera called the library most Tuesdays, on the old line they never got around to disconnecting after the renovations. The call went straight to a yellowed phone hung on ... [+]
E.E. King is a painter, performer, writer, and naturalist - She’ll do anything that won’t pay the bills, especially if it involves animals. Find her at www.elizabetheveking.com and amazon.com/author/eeking. "Hark the Four Tushinski Singy" is in Short Circuit #17, Short Édition's quarterly review.
My father was a writer. He wrote articles, short stories, children's books, and satires. Short, sharp, funny parodies like, I'm Okay, but You're Not So Hot, and the literary scavengers' answer to Johnathan Livingston Seagull—Ludwig von Wolfgang Vulture, about a vulture who learns to read.
He also wrote lyrics, usually to existing melodies. My mother was a classical pianist, and he became quite adept at putting words to the music of Mozart, Beethoven, and Verde. But he was just as happy to put words to popular and traditional ditties, too. Being a child, I had no idea his librettos weren't standard fare. They were the only versions I knew, and I trusted that they were right.
At the time, he worked for an advertising company run by the four Tushinski brothers: Joe, Fred, Ed, and Abe. We children were eminently familiar with the quirks and foibles of the foursome; Joe's fiery temper; Fred proclivity for collecting classic cars, often without engines; and Ed and Abe's fanatical focus on sales.
I was in sixth grade when I was invited to go Christmas caroling with a group of friends from school. I was so excited! I had read about caroling in the novels of Charles Dickens. I had seen pictures of carolers, wrapped in bright mufflers, hoods, and hats, the candles clutched in their mittened fingers, lighting up their angelic faces as everyone thrilled to the music of the season.
And so we gathered on that fateful day, caparisoned in wool hats, hoods, mufflers, and mittens, sweating profusely in the warm California evening.
And then the singing began. We began with Hark the Herald Angels Sing.
Or at least, they did. I sang the much more familiar, Hark the Four Tushinski Sing.
"Hark the four Tushinski sing,
Sales stayed up all through the spring.
"Summer profits, reap and piled.
Even Joe turned meek and mild.
Fred bought a house, so did Joe.
Abe moved out to Encino-o.
Fred brought fourteen new/old cars,
None of which had dents or scars.
Hark the four Tushinski sing,
Sales stayed up all through the spring . . ."
It was at about this juncture in the song that I noticed that I was singing alone. I quickly grew quiet, too . . . waiting. Oddly enough, no one said anything. Instead, after a slight pause, they began Ode to Joy.
"If all mankind are like brothers, then perhaps I'll lend you ten.
If all mankind are like brothers, perhaps you'll pay me back again."
Once again, I was soloing, and so it was with every Christmas Carol. I knew only my father's versions.
By the end of the evening, not only was I sweating profusely, I was humming along to everything, mouthing words to songs of which I knew only alternate renditions. My lyrics had nothing to do with baby Jesus, peace on Earth, or angels. They were about finance, old cars, and how most people would cheat you given the chance.
Perhaps the strangest thing was that nobody said anything to me that night. Nobody mocked me. Nobody made fun of me. (We were sixth graders, after all.) And nobody made me feel like an outsider. They just kept singing, and I kept humming, having a pretty good time despite the fact that we were all horribly overheated. Even odder, was that nobody mentioned it at school the next week, or ever. Nobody teased me. No one ridiculed me. To this day, I can't understand it.
Looking back, all I can think of is that perhaps our hearts really had been full of the spirit of the season. For isn't that what Christmas is supposed to be about—hearts bursting with brotherhood, sisterhood, love, and acceptance? A time where everyone sings in harmony with others, and is accepted, even if their lyrics, or their beliefs, vary.