I Don’t Know About You, But I’m Feeling… Really Young

I’m the director of a small but relatively dedicated church choir. Most of the members have been part of the church for years, but there are three relative newcomers: the pastor and his wife, who got appointed to our church about two years ago, and a recent transplant from Maine, whom we’ll call Georg for reasons that will become apparent to anyone who hangs out on a certain blogging website.

We’re preparing for Memorial Day Sunday with a special extra rehearsal. Georg has requested that we perform two songs — “Taps” and “Battle Hymn of the Republic” — and I am happy to oblige. We’ve just run through both songs once and are taking a short break before running “Battle Hymn” a second time.

Pastor: “We should sing the version I learned in the schoolyard. ‘Glory, glory, hallelujah! Teacher hit me with a ruler…'”

Alto #1: “‘Hit ‘er in the bean with a rotten tangerine, and she ain’t gonna teach no more…'”

Pastor: “Those aren’t the words I learned!”

Alto #1: “Well, that’s how we sang it when I was in school.”

Soprano #1: “I learned it as…” *Sings* “‘Hit ‘er in the butt with a rotten coconut…'”

Me: “Yeah, my best friend in elementary school taught it to me as either, ‘I hit her back with a big potato sack,’ or, ‘I hit her back with a twenty-ton brick sack.'”

Alto #1: “Well, I’m seventy-six, and when I was a girl, that was how we sang it.”

Pastor: “Yeah, I’m seventy, but we sang the coconut version like [Soprano #1] did.”

Soprano #1: “I’m sixty-one. ‘Hit ‘er in the butt with a rotten coconut.'”

Alto #2: “I’m eighty-three, and I have never heard that before!”

Soprano #2: “I’m sixty-one, too, but I never sang it; my mother would have killed me.”

Pastor’s Wife: “You’re sixty-one?! I thought you were closer to my age! I’m fifty-six.”

Soprano #2: “I thought you were my age! Like [Bass]!”

Bass: *Laughing* “No, I’m sixty-five.”

Soprano #2: “You are not!”

Bass: “I am. I’m sixty-five.”

Tenor: “I’m not saying how old I am, but I’m old enough to have a great-grandbaby on the way.”

Georg has been sitting on the piano bench during this conversation, and the only reason I haven’t started laughing at his expression is that I’ve studied improv. He’s looking from choir member to choir member, and his eyes are about to bug out of his head. I turn to him and speak in a calm, flat tone.

Me: “If it makes a difference to you, I won’t be thirty-four until October.”

Georg: “I’m twenty-two!“