I love to sing. That’s something that not many people know about me. That’s because I never sing when anyone is around. When I was a teenager, I would come home after school and, if no one was home, I would blast some Janis Joplin and try to imitate that boozy Southern Comfort rasp, full of pain and suffering. On a good day I could harmonize right alongside John Lennon and the Beatles. I wasn’t shy in front of my mirror with my hairbrush as my microphone.
In my early twenties, I worked at Hofstra University during the day and attended classes there at night. My lunch hour was often spent in a tiny soundproof practice booth in the basement of the music hall, playing an out of tune piano and singing at the top of my lungs. No one ever heard me do that either.
Sometimes when I’m alone at home, I’ll put on some music while I’m cooking and a song will grab me and I’ll start singing. Not just humming along, but real serious singing – full of vibratos and crescendos, with some dance steps thrown in for effect. Only our parakeet has seen these performances, and he isn’t repeating a word of it to anyone.
When I was young, my secret desire was to be an actress on the stage. I fantasized about being discovered by someone who was sitting in a darkened theater while I was belting out a song on an empty stage.
“You’re a natural! A marvel! Where did you learn to sing like that?” a voice would shout from the back of the theater. “You’re just what we’ve been looking for!”
I even tried out for a rock band once, but got so nervous I forgot the words to the song and just stood there humming dada dada doo doo doo…
“Can you sing the words?” the band leader asked. But the words wouldn’t come out of my mouth. In fact, my throat started closing up and my hands started shaking, so I left saying I didn’t feel well. On the way home, in the car, with the windows clamped shut, I sang the entire song – with the words.
I still fantasize about wearing a slinky black dress and singing the blues with a jazz band or belting out the solo in a Broadway play with a stage full of tapping feet behind me. But this will never be, for I am pathetically shy and cannot sing in front of people.
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The other day, I was babysitting for my grandchildren. My son was coming to pick them up soon, so there wasn’t enough time to set out the paints or have a second go around with the Play Dough. To kill a few minutes, I pulled out a book of Disney songs. I haven’t played the piano in years and I knew my arthritic fingers would turn some sharps into flats, but decided to plunk away to see if the kids recognized any of the songs.
Within playing the first few bars of “Some Day My Prince Will Come,” my four-year-old granddaughter began softly humming along. She quickly turned into a demanding musical director and yelled out, “Grandma! Sing the words!”
“I can’t,” I said, and continued humming as I played the piano.
“Yes you can, grandma. Try! Sing the words!”
Let me tell you, reading the notes and reading the words at the same time was not an easy task and I hit many wrong chords, with both my fingers and my voice. But my little audience was so appreciative; they clapped and clamored for more. The next few songs were a little easier, as I gave up trying to read the words to the song and ad-libbed it, which left me more energy to concentrate on hitting the right piano keys. I can honestly say that my piano playing was atrocious but I thought my singing wasn’t so bad. Getting up off the bench, I told the kids, “Grandma’s going to practice some more so I’ll sound better the next time you come over.”
“Yay!” my granddaughter cheered, “and next time, wear your glasses.”
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