Stricken By the Ghost of Buster Keaton*

I suppose that many parents accidentally pass on less than idyllic behavioral traits to their children. Just look at the Royal Family of Great Britain for an example of how to screw up with the best of intentions. Anyway, we were certainly not royals, even though we still refer to “Mother” while doing the Queen’s tight little wave with our right hands.

I didn’t realize it, but I went off to college with a chip on my shoulder, an attitude learned through osmosis at home. I suspect my brother and sister also discovered this little family defect was working against them when they got out on their own. For me, it was a matter of unintended haughtiness born of the need to never be judged “stupid.” I took myself VERY seriously, even though I’d had several best and worst friends over the years who’d worked hard to set me straight.

Thankfully, the universe will have its way, and we will be corrected.

A couple of memorable events happened in my last two years of college. The first was probably in the winter of 1971-2. Cheap wigs were all the rage on campus. I mean, seriously, you could run down to your nearby Department store and get a hairpiece or even a short wig for under $20 in any natural looking color or style.

I must have had three or four wigs, including a frosted “Jane Fonda Shag” like she wore her hair in the movie “Klute.” I think that was the one I was wearing that gray, windy, autumn day. I’d pinned my long thin hair up on my head to cover it completely with that wig which generated its own warmth like a snug, incompassing hat. I was racing from a class across campus to the Fine Arts Building for Symphonic Band. As I rounded the corner of a tall Bluestone building, the wind whipped around it and caught me full force in the face, ripping the wig from my head. I could see the astonished, gaping face of the girl walking toward me as I dropped my books and reached up to catch my hair before it flew away.

Oh No! I had to gather my books and papers as quickly as I could before I could chase after that wig which was bouncing across the open campus like a wild hare being chased by a swift fox! Some 50 yards away I caught up with it and stomped on in with my foot.

Have you ever seen a woman with “wig-head, when her hair has been heated and compressed against her scalp to the point where it looks painted onto her bald pate? Yep, pretty bad! So, I slammed that wig back onto my head, twisted it around, and tried to tuck in any loose straggling hairs. I saw a couple of girls nearly doubled over laughing as they passed me. I knew their thoughts were, “Thank GOD that was HER and not ME!”

Well, I could have been mortified, in fact, I WAS. But, they’d held up the mirror of my own Buster Keatonisque catastrophe and I could only think about how hilarious it looked through their eyes. I could not play my instrument that entire class period. I kept sliding out of my chair laughing so hard to myself that I couldn’t even explain why I was laughing.

I never again wore a wig on a windy day, and I always tied it down with a long scarf when I did wear one.

Thank God that incident had already broken me because the next blooper was much larger.

I was 21 years old, a student teacher working with the Concert Band at Kate Collins Junior High School in Waynesboro, Virginia. My students were mostly 7^th and 8^th graders, about half of them pre-pubescent and very self-conscious. They were cute and I enjoyed teaching them. My time with them would wrap up with the grand finale being the Christmas Concert in the huge High School Auditorium.

This was to be my Directorial Debut and I was as nervous as those kids were. Every kid that age is certain that he or she is going to make THE mistake or squeak that EVERYONE in the audience will hear and KNOW who did it! I wanted to be perfect as I was being judged and graded on MY performance for my teaching credentials. I picked out my clothes carefully, a full-length, quilted A-line red and back skirt with a matching bolero over a black turtleneck, my long blond hair streaming down my back. I practiced moving with the grace of a swan.

Keep in mind, this was THE Christmas Concert for the City of Waynesboro. That night the concert would include the elementary school’s 5^th and 6^th grade Band and Chorus, the Junior High Band and Chorus, and the High School’s Symphonic Band and Chorus. That cold, winter night, every parent, every grandparent, aunt, uncle, older and younger sibling, and next-door neighbor was there, filling up the auditorium, standing room only.

The elementary groups finished their two numbers each and the stage was reset for the Junior High Band. After I helped direct my students onto the stage, as practiced, Mr. Borel, my supervising teacher, stood in the wings stage left while I stood in the wings stage right. I double checked the scores held in the crook of my left arm, straightened myself out, stood tall, and said to myself, “Yes, Barbara! You’re looking good! The stars are with you!” And although my joints felt they were capable only of a ratcheting movement I was determined to glide effortlessly across that stage and with a smooth, graceful leap, alite the 7-inch-tall podium.

I began my forced glide, carefully computing when to take that little leap. But, my skirt was just a little too lean and suddenly restricted the required spread, catching my legs short. I lurched forward, landing on my belly across the podium. At that moment, all the air in the auditorium was suddenly sucked out by the huge communal gasp of the audience and performers. During that eon of silence, my arms and legs were uselessly flailing in the vacuum as my scores skittered and slid across the stage.

It occurred to me that I could not pretend this hadn’t happened. I gracelessly clamored to regain my feet, stood and lifted my skirt enough to STEP up onto the podium. Mr. Borel had collected my scores and knocked the dust off of them while I swatted at the dust bunnies on my front. I turned to the audience and with a sheepish grin, took a long, deep bow. They roared applause and I turned to the Band, made a face and shrugged.

I didn’t take any kind of poll, but I knew that I had just blown away my students’ individual fears of appearing foolish. How could they possibly top their director’s unintentional pratfall? It took a moment to make sure my pages were in order and give the students a reassuring smile before I raised my baton and led them through their music.

As I look back on that night, I doubt anyone alive remembers my name. If they remember anything at all, they would be shaking their heads at that poor idiot of a student teacher who took a dive on stage and then recovered herself. I hope they chuckle.

*If you don’t know who Buster Keaton was, I am so sorry. You need to Google him. He was, and always will be, the King of the Sight Gag, a man with a somber face who brought laughter to the world.