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Thanksgiving: A Time To Speak Up

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The Tampa Tribune

Published: November 21, 2007

While awake in our bed a few mornings ago, for some unexplainable reason my thoughts drifted back to a Thanksgiving when I was a scrawny, knobby-kneed lad of 6 and a first-grader at St. Monica Elementary School in Berwyn, Pa.

There was a school tradition that the first-grade class always put on the Thanksgiving play each year, to the pleasure or dismay, I hasten to add, of the parents and siblings of the wee players. And so it was the first really big thing I had to look forward to after making it through kindergarten - playing a part in this annual event, a real biggie in our little town.

Usually, when the leaves of the mighty maple and oak trees began to fall, it was time to prepare for this big production. So by late September a script was found, borrowed or created, and roles were assigned to each first-grader.

Oh, it was an exciting time! I am quite certain there were at least 23 of us in that particular class, which meant a pretty big undertaking for the teacher. Actually, it didn't take more than a few practice sessions before the teacher was begging for help from other teachers, her convent inmates.

Truthfully, I don't remember very much about the play other than the tiny part I had been assigned. I had one line to remember, which I was led to believe was the most important line in the entire play. The plot, if I may refer to it as that, had to do with an early Plymouth Colony family discussing and preparing for the first, or one of the earliest, fall feasts to thank their creator for a bountiful harvest.

Naturally, there were mostly Pilgrims portrayed and, of course, several Indians, too. Wampanoags, if my memory about the early Plymouth colony is accurate. I was to portray one of the leaders of that time, either William Bradford or Miles Standish.

I never could get it straight which of the two I was supposed to be. It didn't really matter to me as long as I got to wear that neat helmet, really cool britches and carry a small replica of a blunderbuss! (Sixty-five years is a very long time to keep such minutiae fresh in one's mind.)

Be that as it may, I have never forgotten my line, nor, I suspect, ever will. Also, I can vividly recall the director/nun's admonition: "Speak up; people in the back of the room will never hear you."

Every practice session, especially as the day approached, I seemed to get progressively worse in the deliverance of my line. Then, the day before the play was scheduled, Sister St. Agnes took me aside and not so gently, as I recall, told me that if didn't speak up I would ruin the entire play for everyone. I don't think my tears, crocodile as she referred to them, impressed her one little bit.

I prayed that night that something would happen to cause the cancellation of the play: a sudden early storm dropping several feet of snow on the town, a tornado, an all-consuming fire at school - anything that would prevent me from having to perform.

But, alas, right on schedule, dawn broke on a beautiful November morn, with glorious sunshine and only a nip of winter in the air. Crestfallen, I dressed for the two-mile trek to school, looking pretty much like a condemned man trudging his way to the gallows.

Unfortunately, when I finally arrived at the school it was still there in one piece, and nothing had occurred that would prevent the show from going on.

So, later that afternoon, the entire school body, from second- to eighth-graders, their respective teachers and any siblings and parents who could make it, began to assemble in the auditorium.

As I mentioned earlier, I don't really remember much of the play, as I was nearly brain dead by this time, probably from fright for my soon-to-be certain failure. All I was listening for was the cue for my line.

Then, suddenly it was there: "What do you wish me to do, father?" I leapt from my chair, and, with a thunderous voice I never knew I possessed, shouted: "Turn the largest log, Edward!" I actually smiled after saying that because I knew I had nailed it and was pretty darn sure I was heard by everyone in the whole auditorium, if not by the people who lived in the house across the street.

Well, the play came to screeching halt - all lines and actions suddenly forgotten. An immediate hush fell over the audience. Why, it was as though everyone was afraid to breathe. Suddenly, the crowd erupted in raucous laughter, with my rotten siblings laughing the loudest and the longest, replete with thigh slapping, hoots, whistles and accusatory pointing in my direction.

Naturally, I was stunned with the totally unexpected reaction. For weeks and weeks I had been goaded, threatened and even paddled for saying the line too softly. Now it looked like I would be drawn and quartered, or at least excommunicated and then drawn and quartered.

As anyone who was schooled by nuns can verify, the good sisters had perfected the art of projecting virtual daggers, and if looks could kill, I would have died on the spot. I truly believe what saved me was that the pastor was practically rolling in the aisle, laughing his head off and commenting aloud that this was the most entertaining school play he had ever seen.

The play finally resumed to its conclusion, and I guess everyone but the nuns left feeling they had a good time. However, it was not a happy ending for me. Oh no, for far too many years after that fateful day, I was known by my taunting siblings and meaner classmates as "Turn The Largest Log Richard!"

The writer, a retired General Motors benefits administrator, is a seasonal resident of Zephyrhills.

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