The Gift
by Harley Hay

Each of us can surely remember the many “Firsts” in our lives: First day in school, first invitation to a birthday party, first job, first date, first baby ...etc. The most important “first” in my earlier years was the entry into the hallowed walls of our small town opera house. I was eleven years old and the opera was “Carmen” (wouldn’t you know!). My mother, careful not to corrupt my tender, young mind, thought that it was a safe enough opera to start with. She didn’t consider that I could adopt some of Carmen’s coquettery.

From the moment of walking up the imposing steps, framed by Greeklooking columns, stepping into the glittery foyer and finally gliding over red carpets and sinking into velvetcovered seats - I was hooked. Mind you, we were sitting way above the wealthy people in the highest place of the theatre, that’s all we could afford. But no matter, my eyes fairly popped out of my head at the sight of the chandeliers, the plaster angels carrying harps, violins and garlands, and way down there, the orchestra pit. I did not have time to read the glossy program, the tootling and squeaking produced by the musicians was more fascinating.

“They are practising,” my mother explained.

“You mean, they’re still not sure of their notes?”

My piano teacher would have been most upset. I was also puzzled why the audience applauded when the conductor appeared. Under my breath I mumbled, “He hasn’t done anything, yet.”

That all changed when the overture started. Wow, it actually pushed me back into my seat. What a difference between the sound of our radio at home and this blast of live music! It amazed me how it vibrated and echoed right through me and stirred up emotions that still shake me now, listening to powerful compositions.

When the curtain opened I realized there was a different world in front of me. I was transported to Spain, people sang, acted, moved, wore beautiful clothes. I promptly fell in love with the first baritone marching in from stage left: Sergeant Morales. Funny, ever since then I have been partial to baritones and basses.

That contributed to my disappointment when Don Jose entered. This was supposed to be the lover for the entire opera? Okay, his voice was not bad but he just couldn’t compete with my baritone’s slim and dashing figure. I was sure that if Carmen had made a better choice and not flung her rose in Don Jose’s face, she would be alive today. Of course, the Toreador was again right up my alley: a baritone, dressed to the teeth and passionate. Not a wimp like Don Jose. How did he dare stab Carmen just because she decided to break up with him!

I was mightily relieved when all the singers appeared in front of the curtain - Carmen alive and well - at the end of the opera. On my way home I declared, “When I grow up I’m going to take singing lessons and sing Carmen.”

Well, life decided differently, but opera is still one of my favourite art forms, and I owe it all to my mother’s forethought and love for the theatre.