SPRING

 SPRING

"Whan that Aprille with his shoures sote.

 The droghte of Marche hath perced to the rote, 

And bathed every veyne in swich licour
Of which vertu engendred is the flour."

Spring's virtue in Northwest Florida, as in Chaucer's England, is evidenced in the magnificent display of flowers and shrubs laden with blossoms. From wildflowers of all hues and delicacy to tended gardens with v riches of azaleas, the burst of color caused spirits to rise even in the financially depressed 1930s.

 "Shall we go pick violets?" was often asked in the early spring. In childhood the question came from our parents, who also enjoyed walks through the woods where violets abounded under or near pine trees. In early teens anyone who had permission to drive a car might suggest this on a lazy day afternoon. And we'd actually pick violets, subtly fragrant and exquisitely beautiful purple violets. 

Few wooded acres were fenced, so the land was open for all to enjoy. A destination might be one of several rushing streams made more beautiful by surrounding white dogwood trees in bloom. While peering into the am, however, the aesthetic beauty might be broken for some by the sight a slithering water moccasin. If shoes had been removed for wading, as was usual for me, a quick jump back onto the banks was made to avoid the dangerous snake. 

Going deeper into the woods hikers either skirted or waded through ampy ground covered with pitcher plants or jack-in-the-pulpits, like wild orchids Drier ground produced cathedral-like settings under tall pine trees with gentle breezes making lovely soothing sounds. In these places even young people tended to speak in hushed tones.

Always on walks through the woods I remained watchful for venomous rattlesnakes. Two close calls for me left strong remembrances: the time I almost stepped on a disguised rattler sunning itself close to a log and another time coming within inches of a large snake coiled, ready to strike. As I sprang out of its way, I heard the terrifying rattle. I can hear it yet.

This danger, like that of contacting poison ivy, and the miseries it could evoke, never stopped adolescent explorers from enjoyment of the enticing woods.

One particular hike tested all my courage. I'd always considered myself as brave or venturesome as any of my friends. But, on a day when perhaps a dozen high school students were on an outing in woods unfamiliar to me we came to a ravine filled with swiftly flowing water. The only crossing was a log about eight feet above the water. One by one each person walked or ran across the ten or twelve feet, whooping with relief as he or she made it without falling. I kept looking for other means of getting across, but there was none. The height and the slippery look of the log frightened me. Just then, one of the boys did fall, but managed to straddle the log and push himself over to the other side.

Finally, I alone was left to cross. Some had already begun to walk ahead. Others stood by to tease and cajole.

"Come on, don't be a scaredy-cat."

“Everyone else has made it."

“If you fall there are only a few moccasins in there.”

“Who minds getting a little wet or breaking a leg? We're only ten miles from town!"

I'd make an attempt of a foot or so and then cringe back to the satety of the ground.

Pretty soon no one was left on the other side but Billy, my friend through all the school years since first grade. I had never thought of Billy as particularly strong or protective, though during the spring months he had grown amazingly from a boy shorter that I to one of six feet.

There he was waiting patiently and saying with encouragement, "Just take steps as if you were walking down a white line in a band parade. Put your sneakers back on (I'd taken them off in hopes of getting a better grip on the log), so your hands will be free. I'll walk out a ways and catch your hand * As I hesitated, he said in a firmer voice, "Come on now, do it." I did as I was told. He grasped my hand and it was all over. Still clutching his hand, we ran to catch up with the others, my heart continuing to pound from the fearful experience, or possibly from seeing Billy in a new light.

Not all experiences of spring were connected with danger. However, reciting Chaucer was something of a springtime trauma. The senior high school English teacher, Mrs. Ruby Rose Rogers, was legendary in her requirements for perfection and completion of all assignments in memory work, recitation and examinations. No student would ever forget Mrs. Rogers’ strict demands for “measuring up." After the review of Chaucer came Shakespeare, Byron, Shelley and Keats. I enjoyed reading springtime verses, that is until called upon to stand and recite an entire poem. The only comfort was the wave of sympathy one could feel from classmates. They were momentarily relieved at not being on the spot but sorry for the agony the reciter felt. Mrs. Rogers rarely complimented and one could be certain of some pointed correction.

“Marjorie. Stop. I have not understood one word. You MUST speak more slowly and distinctly. Please begin again."

Oh, how uncomfortable and embarrassing. Yet, this lady's standards, I am sure, forced from us accomplishments far beyond our imagined abilities.

I cannot think of spring without hearing music. Chopin, Liszt, Sousa marches, Strauss waltzes, Johnny Mercer, jazz all resurrect springtime memories.

From early childhood there were always piano recitals with Chopin and Liszt favorites. In the high school years of the late 1930s there were also annual spring festivals with wonderful music. While I enjoyed making music, especially in company with other young people in the high school and, performing a solo either at the piano or playing clarinet in the band, was simultaneously exciting and terrifying.

"Marjorie, you should try to get in a little more piano practice," my mother, our piano teacher, would gently urge as the recital date neared. As her pupils she would say with a sigh to my sister and me, “I'm afraid you girl illustrate the old saying, ‘The shoemaker's children go without shoes Im sorry that we had to skip your lessons so that I could give make-up lessons to other students. But," she'd add hopefully, "you'll do fine with a little more practice.” Mamma’s faith in my performance was never fulfilled, at least in my view.

I cannot recall a single recital in which I played well. Performing under bright lights with the knowledge that I hadn't practiced sufficiently to get through this ordeal without at least one mistake caused me to race through the piece. Maintaining the correct tempo or playing with any musical expression were forgotten once I sat down at the piano. "Get through it and get off the stage,” said the voice in my head.

Once this anguish was over, I enjoyed listening to those of Mammas pupils like Ruth Taylor or Lucille Wooten, who played musically and without mistakes. I was also much fascinated as from the wings I watched Marjorie Rutan glide out onto the stage carrying a large, brig tly colored chiffon handkerchief, which she slowly and dramatically placed at the end of the keyboard. I'd heard my mother suggest at rehearsal that she not do this, but this young woman knew about show business before Liberace made the scene. The audience loved it.

In the late 1930s and early 40s, the regional spring music festival initiated in large part by the Roosevelt New Deal Recovery Programs became an annual occasion. This event, involving choral groups, bands, orchestras and ensembles and lasting several days, was held in our town. De Funiak Springs was selected because it had the largest auditorium in Northwest Florida (seating capacity of 4,000) and because from the town’s beginnings in the 1880s, it had been considered a cultural center. The large auditorium with separate meeting rooms was built to house the souther™ Chautauqua, established as a counterpart of the original Chautauqua in western New York.

The entire town became involved in this event. Housing and feeding the pordes of young musicians was a major undertaking, especially for our smail town of 2,000. However, there were few homes which did not make room for one or two guests. The logistics of arranging accommodations for this influx of people were awesome, but willingly tackled by civic leaders.

I knew personally of this task as my capable Aunt Bern(Mrs. Stuart Gillis) was in charge for several years. At the conclusion of each festival she would proclaim, “I will never, no, never, take on this job again.” But she did, and the tales she would recount of people and incidents entertained our family for weeks.

"My dear, you would not believe the demands some of these people make. You'd think they expected to stay at the Waldorf Astoria. I told one choral director, if she didn't like the place assigned to her and a couple of her students, they had two choices. They could travel to and from their own homes each day, which would be quite a drive, or take cots at the old Palmer College Gymnasium. Pienty of lovely young people are very happy camping out at the Gym. Well, this woman flounced about saying she'd speak to someone in charge. To that I replied, "Young lady, I am in charge. Please let me know your decisio have our hosts insulted by temperamental prima donnas.”

Somehow it all came together and was a highlight in the lives of all the youthful participants. Our Glee Club, directed by my mother, and the band directed by G. M. Shearouse, who had played with the great Sousa band, won top honors. I especially remember Edith Klein and Martha Leach in the Glee Club. Even before receiving the judges' verdict, however, we received a not completely unbiased evaluation from Aunt Bern.

"There is no question but that our Walton High Glee Club sang ‘Beautiful Dreamer’ far better than any other choral group, and the band was excellent. Maryy, your clarinet solo was perfect, your sister's tympani playing was the best ive ever heard, and the vocal trio with Marjy, Phyllis Douglass and Persis Miles Should win first place!"

Absent from this major event were people of color, except for the year an exciting choir from the African Methodist Episcopal Church, organized as part of the WPA cultural program, made a special appearance and received a standing ovation. “Sometimes I Feel Like a Motherless Child” was so moving it evoked a deep silence before the burst of applause. Another haunting spiritual, "Wade in the Water," with its rich harmonies, kept going through my head days after hearing it. It would be some years before school} desegregation would open the doors for young musicians of all racial and ethnic backgrounds to make music together. 

The annual spring rite, the high school prom, signifying entry into the adult world, was enacted in my school as elsewhere across the United States. For us, it was a Junior-Senior banquet with dancing at the Walton Hotel. How exciting to be attending a formal affair at the once grand old hotel made famous by the Chautauqua. How thoughtful of our teachers to insist that everyone attend, with or without a date. 

To the proms of 1939 and 1940 girls wore modified Scarlett O'Hara dresses, the style having been influenced by the recently released movie version of GWTW. The dresses were mostly off the shoulder with full skirts, some with hoop underskirts and made of taffeta, organdy or mousseline de soie. I particularly recall mousseline de soie because of its lyrical sound and because the dress I wore as a senior was of that soft, graceful material in blue. It had been purchased as a gift from my aunts at W. E. Parrish & Co., De Funiak's finest shop for women's apparel.

How different, as well as pretty, all the girls looked in their colorful evening dresses. Corsages or a single blossom presented to girls by equally dressed up dates or parents were worn in our hair or on the wrist.

Flowers used to decorate the room came from the beautiful yards of classmates. What profusion of color those lovingly tended gardens produced.

Flowers, whether in the woods, gardens, vases or worn by young girls, formed for me lasting sensory memories of the excitement and beauty of spring, with music the ever-present handmaiden and the presence of young
men somehow newly connected with it all.