Tale 43
I Married Her So She'd Quit
personal
gift to Fred Waring from American cartoonist Ed Dodd
I...
want, a girl,...
A plaintive whine
in the corner turned sweet, then changed into a refined
four-part barbershop[1]
sound that was slow, free-rhythm, and dream-like. A private
longing of the conductor’s was communicated somehow to sixteen
men as if they had been one heart sighing one long musical
sigh – in impeccable harmony – his sigh, his own personal,
harmonized sigh, one that he would have sung himself for the
audience, if only he could have sung a sigh as beautifully as
he could make his chorus sing it; but, he could not, of
course. Nobody in the world could have duplicated the sound of
Fred Waring’s sixteen Pennsylvanian gleemen singing a sigh,
not even if they’d had their own chorus, like he had. No one
had done it before with a chorus. No one would do it after him
in history, most likely, because it was impossible. Fred
Waring sighed with a heavenly choir, and he did it not only
once in his life, and not just by luck, but every single
night, as he was proving right now, for the millionth time.[2]
...Just...
like, the-girl-that-
Married...
dear, old,
Daaaaaaad....
Bill's night-long
explanation for leaving Fred was making him reflect finally.
"I don't know where I'm goin'," he said, "or what I'm gonna
do.”
...the Indians disagreed
whether the French [Jesuit priests] should be appeased or
slain as sorcerers.[3]
“'Cause I'm very
insecure too. I'm really uptight about it. I'm putting up with
Fred until I find something better."
Huron men did not engage
in verbal disputes and were not supposed to interrupt one
another;... verbal quarrels appeared effeminate...[4]
He sighed. "What I
want more than anything is something without the hassles, with
a fair to middlin' –...." He stopped.
....each would state his
opinion slowly and distinctly, speaking in a special
ceremonial style that was full of metaphors, circumlocutions,
and other rhetorical devices that were uncommon in everyday
speech. Every one listened attentively, politeness and good
humour being considered essential.[5]
"She thinks I'm
particular, but that's all I want. I really don't have
delusions of grandeur. I just don't want the hassles. It's not
worth it, unless I can do it without all these hassles,
y'know, terrible pressures."
Violent outbursts were
rare and, to the surprise of European visitors, were strongly
disapproved of, even if the issue was a hotly debated one.[6]
Bill looked done
for the night.
And mj was not
complaining. He had suffered as much as he could, four hours ago. His
boyhood artist-saint lay in a corner, deposed and
anathematized, as if he had personally wiped out a race
destroyed three centuries before his own birth. How could Fred
Waring have been responsible for the destruction of the Huron?
He had been systematically tormented, left without hope of
reprieve, and was still in a hell where Bill had left him,
even now, languishing in a spiritual desert.
At the same time, in order to show that he did not fear death as a sorcerer might, Brébeuf [the Jesuit priest] gave an athataion, or death feast, to which he invited the people of Ossossané.[7]
He addressed them, as he
had a right to do on such an occasion, concerning the interest
that the Jesuits had in the welfare of the Huron and explained
to them the nature of Christian beliefs about life after
death.[8]
Bill looked at mj
as if he might have had a few thoughts more. "It isn't worth
it, mj," he said. "I'm gaining weight like crazy. I'm nervous.
I'm constantly jumping like that." He started in his seat.
"We're fighting, Betty Ann and I. I'm bein' honest. She's
worried about where the money'll come from, and so am I."
Several days passed and,
to the astonishment of both the Jesuits and the people of
Ossossané, the headmen ceased to threaten the
missionaries... the epidemic had run its course and the
missionaries were left in peace.[9]
And poor ole mj
lorenzo felt sad. A publicly disgraced Fred was better than no
Fred at all. He wanted to adopt his poor old favorite choral
conductor and take him home as a sort of souvenir, as the
Huron sometimes adopted heroic enemies they tortured, and took
them home with them permanently as new family members, rather
than killing them in the end. Rather than have Fred done in at
sunrise, which was fast approaching (on the earth's longest
day), he would accept a new Fred instead of the old. The
big-Huron-chief-sitting-in-longhouse could not object, because
it would happen inside mj, where nobody could touch it.
Peyote-ized, as he
thought, half asleep and hung over from a night of drinking
and visions, he saw one more. In it he carried Fred up from
the underworld of the Huron longhouse toward the light of the
sun as it was coming up, just below the horizon. It was not
the same Fred Waring that mj had envisioned might have entered
Bill’s longhouse to stage a concert. And it was not the same
leader of a Chosen People who had crossed a winedark sea with
them during the night in a rowboat, to a new world and new
life; for during the night Fred had changed somehow, as now
became apparent. Prophet and priest no more, draped over mj’s
shoulder, fanny-forward and in a white gown, he kicked men's
black and white show shoes. He screamed; he flapped and wailed
in male falsetto; and he drummed on mj lorenzo’s kidneys. This
Fred Waring was a male Eurydice, demanding hell instead of
rescue by Orpheus. Experiencing Hades had hardened Fred
Waring. He had sated himself with knowledge of it; and now,
like a juvenile delinquent bonded out from detention, he
resented the thought of home. He badgered mj until the poor
interviewer wished he had left him in Hell where he had found
him.
Mj looked at Bill
with a little more respect as a result. "Mm huh," he said,
understanding.
[Father] Brébeuf
persuaded an influential man to sponsor yet another feast so
that he could address the Huron on the subject of hell.[10]
The brilliant light
of sunrise flashed through windows now. And Bill yanked mj and
his squirming gargoyle up out of the netherworld to God's
country, fully and finally, when he said with his usual
everyday rowboat-fishing voice, actually interested in mj's
feelings: "Imagine how you'd feel, mj. If you had no job."
And mj felt himself
again. "And Dlune’s pregnant!" he reacted. It woke him from a
nightmare.
"And I," said Bill,
"I'm a habitual eater, that's all. Nervous eater. And although
when it comes to business I'm a very logical, practical
person, when it comes to, y'know –. I might go out and spend
on a boat and a reel, what I can't really afford, and things
like that, but that –. I still am not gonna go out and let
that boat get in the way of my business. If I can rationalize
it away, in any way, that thing will give me relaxation, and
take away some of the tensions that I have on my job, y'know."
The men were in
four-part harmony now, and Conductor-Fred's lovely uplifted
Savior-hands were visible again.
...She... was a
pearl...
Bill sighed. "And
that's why I could never deal with Betty Ann, with Fred. There
was just too much money goin' down the drain to pay her. I
mean we're talking in thousands. Money he didn't have!"
In other words,
before falling in love with her, Bill had repeatedly told Fred
to get rid of her, or lower her salary, one or the other; and
Fred would not do either one, not even if it made sound
economic sense. And, as Bill knew but would not say out loud:
when a man overpayed a woman, it implied something else.
...And... the
on-ly girl...
"And," said Bill,
"I half believe, with his warped view, in order for me to win
– and he's the type that would do something like this – in
order for me to win, I married her so she'd quit!"
The music was sad.
...That
Dad-dy... ev-er haaaaaad...
"Da-hawh!" Bill
laughed. "I think he half believed something like that." Bill
drove a look through mj. "Because he's that type of man. He
just might do something like that!"
When... [Father
Brébeuf’s feast] was over, the [Huron] headmen who were
present announced that henceforth they would recognize
Brébeuf as a fellow headman.[11]
Light filled the
room. "He was competitive," mj said, "and you beat him."
"Yeh, I, but –, I
didn't uh –." Bill plead innocent. "There was no competition
ever involved here!"
...A good
old-fash-ioned girl....
The newborn
mother-stealing theory cried out to mj, demanding to be fed,
and he said, "No, of course. But in his eyes there was
competition. And in his eyes you took her away from him. She
was the biggest star, even if she cost him money. Plus she was
a confidant, ‘a good
old-fash-ioned girl’,” mj said with the song he could
hear. "And how many of those did he have?"
"Not many," he
said. "But he uses that ‘confidant’ with her to get what he
wants. That's Fred's big weapon. And how he uses it!"
What did this mean?
Mj didn't care because it was a distraction and he wanted to
shine light on one last thing: "It's still the same thing,
Bill." The early solstice daylight in the room was helping him
think. "She was always sympathetic. She was always friendly
and warm."
With heart so
troooooooue...
The second tenors
echoed, With-heartsotroo...
"She still is,"
Bill said, "very much so."
"Mm." Mj could be
patient with thick skulls. It was his job, his nature. "Though
he doesn't get to see her as much these days, does he?" The
young doctor could go to great lengths to help a friend,
especially when there might be something for him to gain.
"He doesn't see her at all,"
said Bill. "He saw her at the concert the other night, is
all."[12]
"So, Fred's not
getting her tremendously valuable sympathy any more," mj said.
“I mean, she's not talking with him any more, listening to his
sad love stories."
One who loves
no-bo-dy else...
"No," he agreed.
But
yoooooo-ooooooo...
Mj nursed his
theory, his infant theory, feeding it so it could survive in
the difficult world, his mother-stealing theory. "And this is
how he has lost."
Bill's nod was
reluctant.
"'Of course," mj
said, "maybe he's substituted somebody else now." It was a
last offer of escape. Bill was the closest to forgiving Fred
he'd been all night, and Dr. mj was giving him one last chance
to not
forgive. If Fred had found a substitute for Betty Ann, then
the Dr.’s mother-stealing theory would lose traction. And it
would be harder for Bill to feel sorry for Fred and forgive
him.
But: if Bill, mj’s
good friend Bill Blackburn, who was all heart, could not
forgive Fred Waring, what hope was there for humanity?
AaaaaaaaaahI
waah-ntuh-girl...
"Well," said Bill.
"For him sittin' down and bein' able to talk to this new girl,
he has to keep this AURA. Plus, I've seen the look on his face
when he talks with her."
Jaaaaaaaaaauh
stlaahi-k'thuh-girl...
"Yeh," mj said.
"So, that's different from Betty Ann!" He cheered, thinking he
and Bill were about to bring peace and happiness to God's
country.
Tha tmaaaaa
reeee deee rooooh lDaaaaad.....
"What I'm saying
is," mj looked for a way to appeal to reason one last time,
"someone irreplaceable is gone, someone close to his heart."
The baritones sang
a coda. The girl that
maaa-reeed...
"I, I don't know
that. I couldn't say that but I –. He's –. Fred is very hard
to fathom anything about. That's all."
Men and melons
are hard to know, said Ben Franklin.[13]
Bill would just,
simply, not yield
the obvious point.
After all.
In the end.
And it looked bad
for the future of humanity.
Maybe.
Their strange
two-man ceremony felt, suddenly, more like a one-man pow-wow.
All night long it had, when you thought about it, so mj gave
up and quit trying.
And he took stock.
There had been no
great golden fairy tale of courtship tonight, no tale of
marriage in Fred's living room, or honeymoon at the White
House, just some new tales and a few good ones. Fred was
ruined but alive. There had been no life-altering vision, but
mj lorenzo had seen the other world and returned intact. He
was pretty sure he was intact.
There had been no
encounter with 'ultimate peace' as Joey had prophesied; but
maybe there would be another interview in which he might find
the ‘ultimate peace’ to which Joey referred. In the meantime
the only ‘ultimate peace’ he knew anything about was death. He
could not remember why he was alive and on the planet; but
maybe he would come to remember soon; because he felt like he
had been initiated tonight by someone who seemed like he knew,
Bill Blackburn, into a cult the exact nature of which he had
yet to understand.
You had to expect
befuddling events of this kind on planet earth, apparently.
Men crooned Waring
tone-syllables, so that every audience in the world could hear
the exact English words:
Deeeeeeeeee,
Rooooooooooooh,
Ldaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaad. (Dear
old Dad.)[14]
"Kuh-whackXX!!" The
tape recorder was off.
That the Jesuits were
not slain..., despite the extreme hostility that many families
must have felt towards them, is evidence of the degree to
which the Huron now felt themselves to be dependent on French
trade goods.[15]
The glee club,
orchestra and girls, clinging to Fred's two masterly hands,
suddenly hit a fast, bouncy, happy Big Band two-step:
I,.. wanta-girl
just,..
likethe-girlthat
Mar-ried
dear-old
Dad!-ba-Bu-bu- (trumpets:)
-Bu-bu-Bu-bu-Sh'Baaaaaaahh!!!......
personal gift
to Fred Waring from American cartoonist Mel Casson
[1] Virginia Waring
mentions with regard to Fred’s frequent incorporation of
barbershop technique into his concerts: “Fred was
irrepressible to the end. In July, 1984, three weeks before
he died, he was invited to
As for the notion ‘millions of concerts’, 100
concerts a year times 25 years on the road is 2500.
The song is "I Want a Girl (Just Like the Girl that
Married Dear Old Dad)" by Harry Von Tilzer and William
Dillon, but the Dr. appears to have heard it a little unlike
the only recording of it he possessed, the one on the second
side of the second record of "The Best of Fred Waring and
the Pennsylvanians." In that version there is no actual
barbershop quartet or sound, for example, just the full glee
club.
[2] In defense of passages of this nature in his Tales of Waring, Dr. Lorenzo offered corroboration from Virginia Waring’s biography of her husband. See "How It All Started," footnote 4.
[3] Somewhere in Trigger. The exact number of the page for this quotation had fallen in a black hole and no one could find it in Trigger’s stupendous, minutely researched volume of Huron ethnohistory, as of press time, 2019, not Sammy or his editors, or Dr. Lorenzo. But, they could produce a similar thought from Trigger’s final summary statement at the end of his whopping, historymaking 850-page oeuvre (p. 848): “Most Huron became convinced that the Jesuits were malevolent sorcerers who sought to destroy the Huron people. Motives were established why the Jesuits should do this and as the Huron learned more about what the Jesuits believed and did, their actions and possessions were interpreted as proof that they practised witchcraft.”
Throughout the years of interaction between the two societies, that of the Amerindian Huron tribe and the French Jesuits, there were two Huron groups, each with its own reaction to the Jesuits. One group, called the ‘traditionalists’, wanted to retain their old way of life and have the Jesuits from France disappear; but they needed the trade items which the French traders provided them, traders who said (as the French king had told them to say) that they could not provide the goods (especially guns) unless the Huron accepted the presence and Christian teachings of the Jesuits. The other group were the semi-converted Huron whom the Jesuits were still working on, making them into more perfect Christians. The resulting split and chaos in the Huron tribe weakened them exactly when they most needed to defend themselves against an increasingly aggressive and far more populous neighboring nation of Iroquois. While recognizing this, as Trigger claims, the Jesuits nevertheless persisted aggressively with their chaos-producing attempts at Christianization (p. 849): “Their [the Jesuits’] failure to understand Huron beliefs, or to work effectively to [gradually, and respectfully, and carefully] change these beliefs from within, must therefore be attributed to the limited and [merely] pragmatic nature of their research and to their inability even for strategic purposes to transcend intellectually the values to which they were so fiercely committed. [In other words:] The Jesuits’ desire to destroy Huron religion [as fast as possible] outstripped their search to understand it.” Another way to say it might be: they tried so hard and inflexibly to convert the tribe, they killed it. How can you convert a tribe if it’s dead? Another quote along the same lines, about the Jesuits being ‘sorcerers’: “There can be no doubt that the Huron regarded the Jesuits as shamans or sorcerers who controlled immense power and, therefore, had to be treated with great circumspection. Evidence of this power was perceived in their ability to transmit messages on pieces of paper, to control the weather, and to avoid or easily recover from illnesses that proved fatal to the Indians. The Jesuits further enhanced their reputation by predicting the lunar eclipses of 1637 and 1638, which made many Huron believe they had caused these events to happen...” etc., etc. (p. 566). It was a tragedy of errors on both sides (p. 848f): “Both the French and the Huron used their own concepts of evil as a means of structuring their respective lack of understanding of each other’s ways.” Also p. 848: “As frequently happens in such situations, both the Huron and the Jesuits interpreted those portions of each other’s beliefs that they could not understand, or that they believed threatened their own interests, as manifestations of evil as each conceived of it.”
Americans and all nations should be studying such
history in second grade and every grade thereafter. The
Republicans and Democrats are perfectly capable of
destroying each other too, and with that,
[4] Somewhere in Trigger. Exact page number lost. See above note. Explanation the same. But the next two quotations from Trigger (footnotes 5 and 6) essentially say the same thing as the quotation here.
[5] Trigger, pg. 59. As for the Huron use of ‘circumlocution’, Dr. Lorenzo offered some canny and far-reaching observations in early 2019. He felt that the Mexican flare for the indirecta, or hint, probably came at least as much from their Native American roots as from their Spanish European heritage, if from the latter at all. Unlike U.S. Americans (and their English European forebears), Mexicans usually did not confront each other either in print or in person, but ‘spoke around’ (literal meaning of ‘circumlocution’) an issue. As Trigger stated in his analysis of the Huron culture, the same was true of their tribal elders, who spoke around an important point they were trying to make, so that the listener(s) could fill in the real meaning on their own, a trick which gave more power to the listener, and taught him to listen carefully if he wanted to survive. It showed the listener more respect, in a way, than just blasting him with the main point, as if he couldn’t figure it out on his own. But it took longer, that was the problem for Americans; who in their impatience when they spoke on a subject (or did practically anything) considered it ‘inconvenient’ to help a listener attain understanding in such a protracted, time-consuming way, a way which showed the listener so much ‘unnecessary’ deference.
The Dr. felt Donald Trump’s treatment of the leaders
of Western democracies was possibly an example of this last,
our unfortunately often typically impatient American
approach to non-Americans. Trump was an exaggerated example
of the phenomenon, in fact, he said in January, 2019, during
a Tales of Waring
reading for the CAWC, The Canadian and American Writers’
Club, in Ajijic,
Lorenzo's sentences were too long, screeched the writers, but other than that, most agreed heartily enough to stand up around their four long tables and cheer in the middle of brunch for La Nueva Posada’s hotel guests at the lovely lakeside patio restaurant. And Michael Eager, owner of La Posada, was so delighted with the unusually huge CAWC turnout (four long tables when one was standard!) he offered the Dr. free lodging with a lovely lakeside view the next time he came to town.
[6] Ibid.
[7] Op cit, 544.
[8] Ibid.
[9] Ibid.
[10] Op cit, 561.
[11] Ibid.
[12] The concert at East Stroudsburg State College mentioned in two previous chapters: “Those Audiences Are My People;” and "How Important Is Betty Ann?"
[13] Franklin, Poor Richard’s Almanac, 1733.
[14] A further example of lyrics written (and sung) in ‘Tone-Syllables’. For an explanation of Fred’s choral technique of ‘Tone-Syllables’, see "How It All Started," footnote 3.
[15] Trigger, 544.