by Allen Cheney
“Oh my goodness, Fred! Wouldn’t that be wonderful?” Winnie beamed. Then she told the pastor, “We do have a few extra days built into our trip.”
“You’d be a tremendous help,” said the Reverend Zorn.
Fred glanced toward the choir loft where the entire wall held an elaborate series of pipes from one of the most impressive organs he’d seen since leaving Riverside and Union. As he examined the full display, he gasped, suddenly realizing that this scene had also appeared in some of those recurring dreams.
Winnie asked if she could use the phone. “I think my mother has friends here in town,” she explained. “I bet they would be happy to let us stay for the night.”
As the reverend led Winnie to his office, she leaned toward Fred and whispered, “Let’s just keep our options open. We never know what we’re going to find when we get to Florida.”
While Winnie headed toward the phone, Fred made his way through the sanctuary, hoping to give the organ a try. He tested the resistance of the pedals, the keys. Then he began to play Bach’s Toccata and Fugue in D Minor, a classical composition testing the full range of the organ. Fred needed to learn the limits of this instrument, weigh the sound, explore its tone. He thought back to all the choirs he’d led, all the songs he’d performed. This was one of his favorites, and the familiar melody helped to ease the anxiety he’d felt since seeing the steeple.
By the second stanza Rev. Zorn returned. His brows were bunched, heavy with emotion. “I’ve never heard the organ played like that.”
Within the hour choir members began to arrive. The reverend introduced Fred and Winnie, explaining the church’s good fortune at “having such a talented duo drop by out of the blue.”
As more than a dozen members trickled in, they were friendly and engaging. The singers not only impressed the couple with their chic style and impeccable manners, they were eager to share their hopes for an invigorating music program. The group had big ideas, and when they discovered Fred had directed a section of Handel’s Messiah with the Bernardsville choir, the vocalists reacted with a flurry of excitement, asking if they, too, could tackle the challenging performance.
Fred had his doubts. Even Beethoven had considered Handel to be the greatest composer who ever lived, and all would agree that Messiah was his masterpiece—a powerful series of baroque arias and rousing choruses, including the famously emotional “Hallelujah.” The music was no small feat to perform, even in Bernardsville where the talent seemed to be without end. He would be wrong to even tempt this small choir with such an idea, so he tried to steer their hopes back to a more realistic goal—Sunday morning services.
“Ready for rehearsal?” Fred asked, opening his hymnal.
Throughout the session, Fred offered tips they’d never been taught, tricks he’d learned from his own instructors through the years. “Make sure you pronounce every sound. Don’t let the middle get blurry. Sing all the way through each word. Careful not to drop the end.” When they were unable to hold a note steady, he taught them they could sing on the inhale, a fact that went against everything they had ever known. “You need to have a pear-shaped tone, like a fruit. Large, open-the-back-of-your-mouth sensation like you’re yawning. Lift that soft palate. Then focus and round the front of your mouth. That’s how you get that very mature, heavy, full tone like opera singers.”
By the end of the hour, Fred closed the hymnal and smiled. “I have to admit. I’m impressed.”
The singers were equally enamored, asking a string of questions about technique and performance, hungry for all the knowledge they could gain before Fred and Winnie took their leave. They all stayed long past dismissal time, sharing ideas and vocal strategies while getting to know more about the people of this community, including a particularly engaging couple, Tom and Janice Faircloth.
Finally, when the choir members had gone home for the evening, the Reverend Zorn thanked Fred and Winnie for their time. “I’ve never seen a spark like that,” he said. “I don’t know how to describe it, but . . . if you’d be willing to accept, it would be my pleasure to offer you the position.”
Fred shook the reverend’s hand and said he’d give it some thought. Then the couple headed toward their friends’ home for the night. As Fred opened the Cutlass’s door for Winnie, he said, “I figured I’d never find another choir like the one I had in Bernardsville.”
Winnie smiled. They had finally found their place.
Thirty-one
Throughout their first summer in Thomasville, Fred focused on building a strong church choir. He held rehearsals on Wednesday nights and quickly grew the number of vocalists from fifteen to forty. He also was in the process of securing funds to restore the pipe organ of his dreams. Any remaining hours were spent managing the construction of the family’s new home, as all three were eager to escape their temporary apartment at first chance.
One of the many bright spots of Fred’s job was that the choir members were exhibiting talents parallel to those of the people in Bernardsville. The singers were hardworking, dedicated, and passionately committed to elevating the music program, even learning portions of Messiah as they prepared a special Christmas program.
Nevertheless, while the adult choir was off to a powerful start, the youth chorus was basically nonexistent. Each week, Allison sank in humiliation while a handful of bored teenagers half-heartedly sang through the old-fashioned hymns.
Determined to bring something new to the youth of Thomasville, as well as create an opportunity for Allison to continue developing her talent, Fred remembered the music that spoke to him as a young performer. Then he recalled his days on Broadway and at Union Seminary and even further back to the years he had spent building the outstanding youth choir in Columbus. At that time he had taken a group of middle-school girls, most of whom had never received vocal training on any level, and he had built a choral group that earned praise and awards. He’d had zero budget, but in the end that “little choir that could” had left a longstanding positive impact across Georgia.
If he’d done it once, he could do it again.
That next Sunday evening, as the few familiar teens ambled in for rehearsal, Fred played the piano with vibrant energy, singing through the rock-style “What’s the Buzz / Strange Thing Mystifying.” The music had been written by Tim Rice and Andrew Lloyd Webber for the rock-opera Jesus Christ Superstar. It was scheduled to debut on Broadway just that year, but Fred, still on the cutting edge of music trends, already knew the songs by heart. The young singers appeared to have never heard a song like it, and by indication of their big smiles and wide eyes, it became clear Fred was delivering something new and exciting to these Thomasville teens.
As Fred belted out the catchy rhythm, the teenagers gathered around the piano. Allison held back, observing nervously and hoping her new peers would accept her dad’s out-of-the-box approach without laughing behind his back. Sensing he was onto something, Fred slid right into the fast-paced lyrics as a couple of the members began to dance around the room. By the end of the chorus, the teens were hooked. This was nothing like any church choir rehearsal they had ever attended. They were actually having fun! As they made their way out of the choir room that night, Allison smiled. And Fred exhaled.
The following Sunday, the young singers had not only returned, they had brought friends. Where there had only been a handful of teens the first week, a dozen now flowed through the doors. The week after that, fifteen. And soon there were twenty. Even more surprising was the fact that these were some of the most social adolescents in town, the kind of kids who had several other activities to choose from, but they were showing up to sing.
After several months of weekly rehearsals, it was time to show the adults what the youth had been learning. That Sunday morning, Fred assembled the young vocalists at the front of the sanctuary to perform his unique composition of the song that first caught their interest, “What’s the Buzz.” The children dressed in quirky homemade costumes, adding to the energy onstage as the entire chorus l
ifted their voices to tell the familiar story.
At the end of the song, the congregation applauded, a gesture not usually extended during formal Sunday service. This fun and unusual experience drew the youth choir participation levels even higher, and Rev. Zorn could not have been more pleased. When he thanked Fred after church one Sunday, Fred shrugged and said, “I just know what music meant to me as a kid.”
Unfortunately, while one might assume the adults would be thrilled to discover their teens were spending Sunday nights at church, Fred had unintentionally stepped on a few toes. One evening the family had just sat down to dinner in their small second-floor apartment when they were interrupted by a rapid knock. Fred opened the door to find a gray-haired man standing tight-lipped with a forced smile. Winnie joined Fred at the stoop, and the visitor introduced himself as the head pastor of one of the other churches.
“Sorry to interrupt your supper,” he said, adjusting his wire-framed glasses. “I just wanted to stop by and welcome y’all to town.”
“Oh, how kind of you.” Winnie beamed, inviting the gentleman in for a serving of her signature dishes: country fried steak and green beans with a hot-buttered slice of corn bread. “Melt in your mouth.” Winnie smiled. “Promise.”
“Thank you, ma’am, but I don’t want to keep you. I was hoping to have a quick word with your husband.” He looked to Fred and fidgeted with his tie. “About the youth choir.”
Fred got the hint and stepped outside, closing the door behind him. In the dining room, Winnie and Allison waited patiently to continue supper, discussing another invitation for Allison to fly back to New York and record with Rosemary. It was the third one they’d declined in recent months, not to count the calls for commercial shoots. While Allison agreed it was time to focus on her new life in Thomasville, she remained reluctant to completely surrender her own career.
Within a few minutes, Fred was back in his seat, and the minister was long gone.
“Something wrong?” Winnie asked.
Instead of answering, Fred lifted his fork to his mouth and said, “Best dinner ever.”
Winnie smiled, taking a sip of iced tea. Drops of water were already pearling on the humid glass when Allison prodded, “Tell us, Daddy.”
“He’s upset because the kids have stopped coming to choir rehearsals at his church. Apparently, they’ve joined ours instead.”
All were quiet as they gave this news a moment to sink in. Then Winnie adjusted her napkin across her lap. “Well, gosh, that means we’re onto something. Of course, it won’t do us any good to cause trouble.”
“I never intended to pull singers from their own churches,” Fred explained.
Winnie nodded. “Maybe we could push the rehearsal time back an hour? Let them meet with their own choirs first. Then they can walk over to ours.”
Fred took another bite and said again, “Delicious, Winnie.”
“You really think they’ll go to both rehearsals?” Allison’s face pinched.
“As long as we keep it fun, they’ll keep coming back,” Fred assured her.
After some thought, Winnie offered another idea. “What if we create a community choir instead? Something apart from the church.”
Fred pulled his chair closer to the table, intrigued. “Could keep our rehearsals set for after-hours. Make them nondenominational. Open to everyone.”
“I like the sound of that,” Winnie said with a nod.
“Even if we meet at the church,” Fred continued, “how can they complain about us practicing on, say . . . Thursday nights?”
“They can’t!” Allison grinned.
Fred served himself a slice of corn bread.
“We’ll need a name,” Winnie said. “So no one confuses it with the church choir.”
The family began shooting ideas across the table: concert choir, choral group, Thomasville singers.
“What if we do more than just sing?” Fred suggested. “The students are loving these show tunes. Maybe we could bring a taste of Broadway right here to Thomasville.”
“You mean, perform musicals?” Winnie’s pitch elevated. She was eager to put her creative skills to the test again.
“No. Not exactly. There are too few parts in a show. We wouldn’t be able to include everyone.” After another swig of tea, he explained. “I’m thinking we teach them a combination of styles, everything from show tunes to pop songs. Kind of like what you and I used to do on the radio.”
“A revue, of sorts?” Winnie looked off to the side, ideas already flowing. “I love it!”
“I do too.” Allison grinned.
Winnie leaned over the table, excited. “I could help jazz it up, you know. And Tom Faircloth is great with choreography. Could find an artist to design a set. Some volunteers to help sew costumes. Tackle it the way I produced those plays with Dr. Seaver back at Union.”
Fred agreed. “Take a little of everything we’ve learned along the way. We can put it all together here, help these kids see what they’re made of.”
“Exactly,” Winnie said. Then she fanned her hand through the air and said, with flair, “The Thomasville Music and Drama Troupe.”
“That’s it,” Fred said, assuredly. “The Thomasville Music and Drama Troupe. Perfect!”
Allison took her final bite and sat back against the chair, satisfied. A long wave of silence settled among them. Then Winnie tilted her head toward her pensive daughter. “What are you thinking, honey?”
The teen was all smiles as she looked at Fred. “I’m thinking if anyone can do this . . . Daddy can.”
Thirty-two
Throughout that first year the family focused on building the kind of deep, trusting friendships they had established in LaGrange, Columbus, and Bernardsville. Eventually they traded their temporary apartment for a beautiful new ranch home in the Country Club neighborhood. And after years of consecutive transitions, they finally began to plant deep roots. They were done with relocations, separations, and farewells. Whatever challenges this new life delivered, they would face them together right here as a family. Thomasville, they decided, would be their forever home. Reconnecting with his childhood memories of Papa Noah, Fred filled the family’s new yard with camellias and roses, all anchored by a sturdy magnolia tree much like the one that stood guard over his bedroom window at Highpoint—the Lewis home he had called his own as a teen back in LaGrange.
Because Fred’s music director position was part-time, Winnie had begun working at the church too, helping with secretarial tasks to supplement the family income. In the meantime, Fred had convinced both the public and private school districts to add music appreciation to their course load. Now, he would be splitting his weeks between the two campuses while continuing to expand the music program at church.
As Allison finished her breakfast before her first day of high school, Fred poured a thermos of coffee and asked, “Ready?”
“Let’s go,” she sighed. The many moves had begun to weigh on her, and while she had enjoyed a wonderful year of eighth grade in Thomasville, entering yet another school was no small challenge.
“It won’t really feel like a new school, honey. You’ve already got a good group of friends who’ll be there.” Winnie smiled reassuringly. “And the rest will want to be your friend as soon as they meet you.”
Allison looked down shyly, adjusting her outfit one last time. She tended to be an introvert, like her father, sitting back and letting others come to her rather than reaching out to meet new people. This had always enabled her to form healthy friendships, but such relationships would take time, even with the help of her growing circle of friends.
“Just remember who you are.” Fred hugged his daughter. “Be yourself. That’s the best you can give to the world.”
Allison exhaled as Fred gave Winnie a quick kiss and headed off to Thomasville High with his daughter. When they pulled into the faculty parking lot, a group of girls met Allison at the car, giving her a smooth transition into ninth grade. Fred, on the other hand
, sat for a minute before cutting the engine. Around him, a few educators scrambled to their rooms, but Fred took a deep breath, closed his eyes, and thought about what he was about to walk into—a job of low pay and high demands, far removed from any spotlights or prestigious accolades. Who in his right mind would leave RCA or Broadway . . . for this?
As doubts began to resurface, Fred cleared his head. He had loved being a teacher in Columbus and again at Lincoln Center, and his work with the youth church choir had proven successful. If this was what he had in front of him, then he was determined to make the most of it. No one had impacted his life more than his musical mentors, and now he would be in a position to do the same for these students in Thomasville. With time ticking, he finally left his car and made his way to the green space. Much to his surprise, a few students greeted him, following as he moved toward his assigned classroom.
“Is it true you sang on Broadway, Mr. Allen?”
Another chimed in, “Did you really win a Grammy?”
A third added, “I heard you know Elvis! What’s he like?”
The questions whirred, with the huddle of excited teens eager to hear every detail about New York City. Fred recognized this desire to sneak a peek at a world beyond rural Georgia. It didn’t seem so long ago when he was their age, desperate for someone to understand his big dreams and his never-ending desire to create. When he looked into the eyes of these teens, he knew them. He really knew them.
As Fred made his way through campus, he could see why the school had been coined “Pizza Hut High” by locals. Its odd octagonal pods resembled the distinct design of the popular restaurant franchise, with awkward roof angles leading to a flattened surface at the top. Two teachers stood near the entrance of his assigned pod, watching all the commotion with interest. The older one was pale, thin, and looked as if she put more cigarettes in her mouth than food. Her sidekick was stockier, with a strip of bright gray roots that contrasted with her long red locks. They smiled when Fred said, “Good morning.” But as he walked to his room, he overheard one whisper to the other, “He can’t be that talented. Why else would he be here?”