The Raffle

THE RAFFLE

It was the Spring of 1967 and, except for the specter of the Viet Nam War, it was the best of times and it was the BEST of times. It was an era saturated in Doo Wop music (The Platters, the Temptations, etc. of like ilk), knee socks /penny loafers (mine were penniless), plaid skirts/white button down blouses. I didn’t feel worried, stressed or anxious about being single even though I was the only one of our group yet unengaged. Susan was in love with Keith, Anne, engaged to Clark, Brenda to Roger, Jane to Gary and Gretchen to Ken. But I had my life-plan. I had already spoken to Bishop Bankhead about a mission, had obtained my passport for my BYU Singers trip to Europe (where we won all kinds of gold ribbons and kudos for our rich choral sound), and had signed a teaching contract with the Jordan School District. Yep, I was pretty much booked for the next year. Also, I had lightened my social burden quite a bit, having taken on a new personal policy of “no more blind dates...no, not ever”. I was weary of spending time with college strangers and exhausted by trying to master the art of chit chat, for which I have never had a talent. It was in this frame of mind, frame of “being” that I answered a phone call from Ray Goodwin, the VP of Culture, BYU. He was a friend of mine from the halls of music and we shared that passion as well as lunch at the cafeteria. He, in his naiveté, was asking me to accept a blind date with one of his unattached friends. I took care of his request with heightened commitment: “absolutely NOT, Ray…sorry, very busy with end of term finals and VER Y NOT interested, but thanks for thinking of me”. Why wouldn’t he think of me? I was entirely unattached, and viewed as the blind date queen of byu: safe, polite, focused on my degree, having dated every Neanderthal available on campus.

Next day with the intention of diving into a research paper, I was on approach to the Education Department at the McKay Building (my home away from home) and was blindsided by a niggling feeling that I should change my mind about the blind date. I pushed it away since it wasn’t within the constraints of my newly established personal policy. It persisted and I went on with my research paper. After finishing the outline for my paper, I found my mind still battling the prompting to change my mind about the date with a certain Stephen Alley. I was so numbed by test preparation and my research paper, it didn’t occur to me that this was the same name as my college Dean, Dr. Stephen Alley. That would have piqued my interest but I was too sidetracked to make the connection. About 5:00 at end of day, I found myself dialing Ray. Crow, served up to the young, isn’t all that bad.

Meanwhile, at the Provo, Utah residence of 600 East Sumac Avenue, a great deal of emotional pressure was being brought to bear upon this aforementioned Stephen Alley. His parents, namely his mother, had grown sufficiently concerned regarding his unmarried status, that she had single-handedly decided upon a solution, intending to yield immediate, if not satisfactory results: a raffle, with Stephen Alley as the prize. A small basket was used, holding papers with the names of all women who had survived four years at BYU without becoming romantically encumbered. After cousin Dale had written the names of “any girl, half decent” on tiny paper fragments, they were tossed importantly into the basket. Stephen interrupted their merry-making with the tea leaves, saying, “As long as you’re all being silly and ridiculous, add the name of Marcie Conn; we have a blind date next week.” The blind date’s name was added. The papers with portent were then stirred around with Mom’s pointy finger and Steve, at the jovial urging of all, drew a name. Mom insisted that: “we don’t care what she looks like, or really anything else, only that we shall all be nice to her, court her and do whatever it takes to conclude in a marriage for our (implicitly, poor) son. ‘ My name was drawn to the sound of jeers, cheers, heckling and general chaos. The charge was to “go get her.”

Meanwhile, my reluctantly eaten dinner of crow devoured, the date was scheduled for 7:00 the following weekend. That night I began the pre-date ritual hair-washing /drying event by sitting under the plastic bonnet (see attached illus). The use of such a hair dryer with multiple parts and limited-length power cord, obviates any other activity, with the exception of reading. After nearly an hour of heavy whirring and light reading, my hair still wet, I heard the doorbell ring and realized I couldn’t possibly be ready on time. I sent a message to the door via Susan that my hair was still wet and that the plans had changed. My former roommate from my SLC student teaching days had the lead in the byu-produced opera, Aida. I wanted to hear her in that difficult role instead of just hanging out in the apartment, eating muesli, as Steve had planned. Susan instructed Steve to change into jacket and tie for the opera and meet back at the apartment to give me extra “drying time.” Steve demonstrated a great deal of flexibility, gentlemanliness and adaptability when he happily agreed.

We arrived at the opera just before the curtain went up. The entire opera was interwoven with very strong and unmistakable feelings that this man I was with, would figure very importantly in my life. I thoroughly reveled in the rich performance of Christine Politis as Aida, but more compelling was the thought that I had met the man I was to marry.

In the conversation on the way home, we were discussing contests, winning the lottery and other shallow topics, when I remarked off-handedly, that I had NEVER won anything. Steve nearly ran off the road. I was always struck that he experienced such a strong reaction to my unfertile luck, when all the while he was inwardly screaming: “….You’ve won me!!”

Marcie Alley, Christmas 2008

Bountiful, Utah

Motab Mishaps

MoTab Mishaps

December 2009

The ignominies of choir travel are sometimes as striking to the Tabernacle Choir travelers as are the great choral moments on stage and the compelling human experiences off stage.

The meticulous and often madcap planning involved in traveling via bus from country to country in a day is daunting. As soon as the bus arrives at the destination hotel, the performers disembark immediately to rush to sound check at the performance hall, return to bolt down dinner, and then beat the clock removing wrinkles from performance clothing and organizing concert music. Immediately following the performance, we spend thirty minutes greeting audience members, handing out pass along cards and the occasional Book of Mormon. One then arrives at the hotel at midnight with a few minutes to assemble the gear needed for the next day’s travel, including an exhaustive list of necessities. Not the least included, are one’s best curling iron and “Freeze & Shine.” This is a special product combusted in a laboratory that can immediately immobilize ANY hairdo for 72 hours running, no matter the liters of sweat emitted from the pores of any one perspiring singer, the temperature of the stage lights, nor the antiquity of the venue: (i.e. The Muzikverein or the Bolshoi Theatre , bereft of the graces of air conditioning. ) The list also includes: undies, rubber-lined dress shields, #7 Hanes panty hose, polyester, double-paneled full slip laced with lead-impregnated nylon fibers & triple-faced full length dress with three drapes, standard issue earrings, 3-strand necklace and 3 inch black patent leather pumps and an all-weather coat. The above mentioned items, along with one’s music, are in addition to what one needs for the night and the next day’s bus travel. Post-concert and post haste, one bursts through the hotel door a bit after midnight, with only 15-20 minutes to assemble the lists of things needed for the night, the next day’s travel and the next evening ‘s performance. Not wanting the added weight of a nightgown/ robe in our hand-held luggage, by design, we often slept in our undies only. One night after a performance, my roommate and I, on top of our game, clothed only in our garments and in perch-on-all-fours-push-luggage-out-the-door-form, stealthily opened our door, glancing left and right to make sure the coast was clear during that small window of time when pushing luggage into the hall dressed in our underwear would make us vulnerable to any passerby. We heaved all six bags into the hall, then looking up from the exertion, we saw two tenors directly across the hall from our room, dressed only in their “whites” engaged in the same activity. It was a moment of embarrassment and humiliation, but there wasn’t even a wink or nod of recognition at the lineup for the next concert; who says the tenors don’t allow altos their dignity. The luggage handlers, a special group of temple-recommend-holding thugs, hit the floors to pick up our luggage precisely at 12:30 a.m. One could detect them in the halls by the hysterical screams heard from some of the rooms (most likely a soprano) who were not quite ready to slide their 3 large luggage bags into the hall for pick-up. One could also tell the thugs were afoot by the thunderous roll of the pickup carts, heavy burdened with enough clothing to open a small Italian Clothing Boutique and enough eyeliner, lipstick and hairspray to camouflage a battalion of green berets. The meticulous planning didn’t always work though because I can remember poor Walt Boyden, the most fastidious dresser in the Choir, (we called him Dapper Dan behind his baritone back) having forgotten his concert shoes, was seen the next evening lining up on the risers for a performance to a large audience of Spaniards. Walt was dressed to the nines in his black tux and fuzzy brown bedroom slippers. He sang the entire concert, the world’s most respected literature, in his fuzzy browns.

A beloved alto who had forgotten her blouse, was seen wearing her sunny yellow blazer with a lovely understated tank underneath. It wasn’t until 8 hours later at a bus stop that I saw her queing up in the restroom and it dawned on me that she had reversed her garment top and refitted it as a tank under her blazer. I looked at her in recognition of her resourcefulness and she hugged me in a wrestler’s grip and hissed into my ear: “Marcie, don’t say a word.” Before my oxygen supply was entirely cut off, I promised .

Sometimes things happen that are, in the moment, intimidating or humiliating, but in retrospect, they are funny in the remembering. One such thing happened to me in Sydney, Australia. We had been given one evening of free time and a friend had bought tickets to see “Les Miserable”. I had never been to live musical theater and jumped at the chance. My roommate, Peggy Lambert, known for her addiction to reading, wearing mittens and turtlenecks no matter the weather, opted to stay home and finish her new read. I grabbed for my room key and she assured me she’d still be up reading and would let me in. I left for the performance excited and happy that she’d be awake to let me in and more importantly , would be alert and eager to hear me spill over in my blow by blow account of my first live musical theater experience. At 11:45 p.m. my elevator door opened onto floor 23. Our hotel was very posh, located just a few blocks from the Sydney Opera House on the Bay. I recall taking an entire roll of pictures of the bathroom with it’s marble shower and shiny brass fixtures. At the end of the hall was a very naked, I mean completely naked man, holding his hand gingerly and precisely over his privates. He was skulking along the corridor walls, seemingly disoriented, but cogent enough to be beckoning toward me and calling for help. He continued to balance himself against the wall with one arm and alternately, lift the “protecting” hand, using it to beckon me. I was confused, a little frightened and had only one object: to arrive at my room BEFORE he arrived toe-to-toe with me. I ran for my hotel door and began calling for Peggy to let me in. I should have known that she would be and WAS RIGHT NOW, in a COMA, a deep, unrelenting REM-sleep coma. I was now yelling to draw her out of her dream sleep to let me into the room. I removed both my shoes and began banging their heels deeply into the lovely mahogany door to add decibels to my histrionic plea to get in. Just as the beckoning man reached to touch my hand, I burst past a sleepy, bewildered Peggy, knocking her to the floor in my anxiety to get on the other side of my hotel door. I immediately called security and to this very day, I am sure that the man was helped to his room. (I didn’t follow through on that missionary opportunity) In a later discussion we concluded that the corridor streaker had probably been a little inebriated, was trying to find the bathroom and had mistakenly opened the exit door instead (they were, of course , spring loaded to close immediately). What I remember most about that evening though is the unspeakably stirring story of Victor Hugo’s chronicle of the French Revolution and the glories of the music in Les Miserable.

Marcie Alley, December 2009

Tabernacle Choir Postludes & Miracles

TABERNACLE CHOIR POSTLUDES-Miracles

1. The Church in it’s wisdom, has used the power of music to member and non-member alike to soften, stretch and change hearts. Participating in choral music has had the power to change my heart. While the Tabernacle Choir has always been a good will arm of The Church, my true inner motive for singing has always been music’s power to deepen my faith and increase my testimony. The text of the scriptures and the praise of God, set to rhythm and melody has helped me retain, and reflect on their meaning and has provided me with personal therapy and needed truth. Bach said it best: “Where there is devotional music, God is always at hand with his gracious presence.” Music, for me is a purveyor of joy. My life’s joy derives primarily from my relationships: those with God and from bonds with other human beings, especially my husband and family. Joy also comes from the capacity to enlarge the boundaries of my soul. My own experience has taught me that joy is generally derived IN TANDEM with or maybe in spite of personal struggle. Music, especially great choral music, has been an important bridge to enlarging the boundaries of my soul. The immense satisfaction of mastering beautiful text, set to complex musical passages, has brought into an ordinary life, all the beauty, wisdom and learning that I have the capacity to hold. It has provided a rich and vast range of spiritual and emotional experience, beyond my deserving. I believe that there is a special repository in the soul where music lives to tutor and heighten the impact of the senses on the soul . I know this is true for everyone and that great music embraces all and alienates none. I think of GRANDMA ALLEY (Oma) in the advanced stages of Alzheimers. She often didn’t know me or where she was, but could sing in full voice along with any hymn, word and note-perfect. As she was dying, when we were singing hymns around her bedside, she opened her eyes to correct a word and asked us to sing it again, even though she had been laying nearly lifeless for days. One day I was making a drop-off at the Deseret Industries and had my choir study tape on, trying to memorize notes.. My windows were down and It was going full bore. The worker at the loading dock, who was clearly mentally disabled, but his soul alive and vibrant as anyone’s, handed me my receipt and said with tears streaming, “Ma’m I sure like your music!” The compliment belonged to M. Lauredsen, composer of the sublimely beautiful “O Magnum Mysterium”. Simply put, the power of music is the genesis of many miracles.

Grounded at the airport in Melbourne, AUSTRALIA by a dense fog, we were laid out on the floor, head to head, toe to toe, purses for pillows, coats for blankets. A prayer had been offered to temper the weather so we could sing our concert in --------------------that night. Adding increased sincerity to our prayer we broke into “Holy Radiant Light”, a Choir favorite. Our chartered plane was the only one that lifted off that night, as the fog parted only momentarily to allow our departure. And it seemed to me that we departed on a slim trail of “Holy Radiant Light.”

Assembled in front of The DRESDEN TEMPLE for a concert to dignitaries and important opinion leaders of the area, we were keenly aware of the history of the temple there and we knew there was much at stake. Right before the downbeat it started to rain….pour; it was coming in sheets. We had our umbrellas up, poking each other in the eyes, trying to keep dry. It was a disaster. As soon as Jerry (Ottley) raised his baton for the downbeat, the rain ceased…midstream, like in Sylvester and the Magic Pebble. (Kids, you remember that one). It seemed as though the water droplets just hung in the air until we were done and resumed on cue precisely at the conclusion of beat 4 of the last note. The rest in history.

Another miracle happened at CHECKPOINT CHARLIE as we were trying to enter Poland. The entire Eastern Bloc (Russia, Czechoslovakia, Germany, Poland, Hungary) was in the throes of divesting itself of Communism. The Berlin Wall was being chipped away, the glass shards lining the top of the wall going to the boldest of the scramblers, and Gorbashev was just about to be kidnapped during our stay. On our choir bus, it was discovered that two of our male singers were missing their passports. Without discussion, spontaneously, seamlessly, we began singing while the border guards, guns brandished, came aboard the bus to check identification. We reached into our bags to retrieve recordings and pass-along cards to share with them. Even the Communists are zealous music lovers. In the meantime, two tenors, one straddling the toilet, the other in a fetal postion against the tiny corner of the bathroom wall, had stopped breathing so they wouldn’t be detected. The distraction worked and the performance there was history-making. For me, breath control took on a whole new meaning.

Each of us has claim on those experiences when we feel the Lord propelling us beyond our own limitations to accomplish something worthwhile. In 1989 during the flurry of activity surrounding President George Bush Senior’s INAUGURAL, sleep deprivation was fierce. I was sick and my voice was shot. Approaching the risers at Constitution Hall, I was weak, daunted by the task of reaching row 8. At the conductor’s cue I tried to push off from the riser to stand but couldn’t. I said a silent prayer at warp speed and in an instant, rose to sing with renewed physical strength and vocal power. As if to remind me that the Lord is my strength, I was allowed to experience both the complete emptying and renewing of strength between each of the numbers. I also knew that the blessing was given, not because of my own merit, but because the Lord wanted us to sound good in the nations’s Capitol. In awe of the experience, I shared it with another singer who offhandedly commented: “You haven’t been in the Choir very long, have you?”

At the NAUVOO TEMPLE DEDICATION, a lovely and intimate space, yet too small to accommodate the size of the Choir, we divided into four small groups. At each rehearsal we sounded puny, shallow of sound. We lacked the usual depth and richness of sound. We were discouraged, all of us, and wondered along with Dr. Jessop, if we could or should sing. During the first dedicatory session, in which I sang, if I hadn’t had the discipline to “keep my eye on the stick:, I would have been sorely tempted to turn around to see who else had joined us in producing an angelic, rich sound with the depth we had been missing.

The whole gamut of human endeavor is open to us when we align ourselves with

God and his holy purposes. I have seen that truth reinforced time and time again as a participant and a bystander. I am profoundly grateful for my calling to sing in the Tabernacle Choir and express my love to you, my children for the many sacrifices that enabled me to honor that calling. Despite the challenges, some benign neglect, and being abandoned on an occasional Christmas, you grew into high-functioning, wonderful adults. I appreciate the good parents you are and the consistent striving to please your Heavenly Father that I’ve observed in every one of your homes. This Christmas, though we are separated by oceans of water and more land than I ever dreamed, I hope you will feel my love and prayers across the miles and know how grateful I am for you and your children, all of whom are a wonder. I love you dearly, Mom

(Sister Alley, Asia Area China Mission)