Miss Sully
Philadelphia, Pa
1967
Kathy, my sister, has a beautiful voice; more beautiful than most
people. So her high school music teacher
recommended to my parents that she take professional lessons. Miss Sully
was found and she begrudgingly agreed to add Kathy to her list of students. She didn’t want to teach someone so
young. How could someone so young be
committed enough to warrant Miss Sully’s muse.
But Kathy had come with strong recommendations. So Miss Sully finally agreed.
Miss Sully lived in downtown Philadelphia in a brown stone
house on Delancy Street. Every Saturday, Kathy and I got up early and put on
skirts and sweaters and white gloves and caught the bus at the corner of our
street. Kathy was 14 and I was 11. We were
dropped off in front of the Union League on Broad and Chestnut. Departing the
bus was hectic. People were getting on
and off. There was pushing and shoving. And to add to the confusion, there would always
be a group of Hari Krishna monks chanting and dancing right there where the bus
stopped. They frighten me in their saffron colors sheets and white chakra marks
that looked like pigeon droppings. As I
attempted to keep clear of them, my sister always pushed me in to them. I would bump them but they were in such a trance
that they never noticed me.
We made our way down Delancy Street and up five worn steps
to her front door. Miss Sully greeted us
each week. She was matronly, even though she had never
married. She was always well groomed, in
a lovely, feminine dress and a strand of chocker pearls. She lived in a home
that had once belonged to her parents.
They are long gone but there are mementos of them and three previous
generations everywhere.
She would ask us about school and as I answered her
question, she ushered me in to a sitting room. And off, she and Kathy would go to the
practice room across the hallway. Her furniture was not comfortable. I remember
sitting upright and stiff in a chair.
Looking around the room, everything was fragile and old. Noting could be
touched for fear of breakage.
I would sit and listen as Miss Sully dramatically pounds a
note on the piano. Kathy was to sing at
that key. And so I could hear Kathy sing “me-o-me-o-me. Never words, just
scales. From time to time I would hear a “good, and again.” And other times, when Kathy did not reach Miss
Sully’s level of perfection, I would hear Miss Sully interrupt her, telling her
to try again. And then Miss Sully would demonstrate herself in her old, worn
out voice which still has a tint of greatness past. But her once beautiful voice has eroded with
age and use. But what dominates now is a
squeaky voice that sounds as if it needs to be oiled. She no longer sings with
a clear, crisp fluid voice but she doesn’t recognize this in herself. And so
when she tells Kathy to “sing it like this”, I think to myself, “I hope not”.
And then there would be a silence and the door handle would
click and then I knew that the lesson was over.
I would meet them in the hallway and Miss Sully would walk us down the
steps and let us out. Closing the door,
she would remind Kathy to practice during the week. “But don’t overdo it. You do not want to strain your voice.”
And then we would go to lunch. We may not have gone to the
same place every week. But we did go to
the Horn and Hardharts on a regular basis.
I loved going to this restaurant. I loved the choices. Everything was a la carte. I loved being free
to pick out whatever I wanted. I loved
the vast array of desserts. I loved the
chocolate milk dispenser. I loved the lunch tray. And l I loved finishing my
meal and watching my tray disappear from the conveyor belts to the cleanup crew
in the back.
Our routine was the same each week for the next few years,
except during for the week before Christmas.
On that Saturday before Christmas, we would ring the bell as usual and
Miss Sully would greet us. But this
time, she would invite us in to her parlor on the first floor. There she would have her sterling silver tea
set displayed and waiting for us. And
she would serve us a warm punch in her delicate bone china tea cup. Sugar cookies would be offered. Now the three
of us would sit awkwardly and talk about the excitement of the holiday. Then after an acceptable amount of time, she
would gather up our cups (whether we were finished or not) and place them on a
tray. I would be directed to the waiting room and they would go off and sing.
And then to add to the holiday celebration, we would make
our way over to Wanamaker’ department store after lunch. There we would find our way to the big bronze
eagle in the middle of the lobby and find a spot in the crowd. Like everyone else, we would lean backwards
and watch the Christmas lights show extravaganza. This show never changed from year
to year and it wasn’t really that great. But it was always important for us to watch. It was a consistent tradition which marked
the beginning of the Christmas week. The
show was probably only 15 minutes long.
But after the show was over, like everyone else, we would straighten out
our necks and move on.
And then we would do our Christmas shopping. We would pool our money and buy gifts for our
parents. With packages in hand, we would take the bus back home and put our
while gloves away for another week.
I don’t remember how many years we did this. I don’t remember when this all ended. But
when I reflect on these outings, I realize this time really shaped my
confidence to travel and explore on my own. It gave e me confidence to go to
new places.
