Scarborough Fair

The 3^rd graders are trailing behind me like a small flock of ducklings. We’re walking – quietly – down the hall to the cafetorium. That is the official name of the place where lunch happens and on certain days, there are band or chorus concerts. We’re on our way to rehearse our piece for the Spring Concert. Scarborough Fair. For a few weeks now, we’ve learned about market fairs, and they’ve brought in samples of - of course - parsley, sage, rosemary and thyme. Before we sing the song, we sniff the herbs.

“This really gets us in the mood!” Peter says, and I wonder if these will be his gateway drugs. Peter has spent most of the semester’s music classes squashed into the space between the bookshelf and the tall closet. Something about this song has drawn him out and he took it upon himself to draw a map of a fictitious medieval town called Boroughshire where Scarborough Fair comes to life every Saturday. He informed us that he gets to do this because he is the sheriff of Boroughshire. “That is why names of towns end in ‘shire.’ Because the sheriff owns them. ‘Shire’ is short for sheriff.” I did not know this. And I not tell him about the redundancy because, after all, he is the sheriff.

The class arrives onstage and the ducklings help me roll the piano into place before they find their spots on the risers. They miraculously stop talking, laughing, and jostling. They become perfect little performers.

I start the intro. Just as we practiced, they come in with a whisper. “Are you going to Scarborough Fair?” I am amazed. These first two bars are absolutely lovely. Then I notice Pratima in the front row. Her face is scrunched up, tears rolling down her cheeks. I stop the music.

“Are you ok?” The class focuses on her.

“It’s just so – “ snork/sniffle, “so beautiful!” She breaks into sobs and suddenly, four or five girls around her are crying too.

“Music is so pretty and so beautiful!” one of them agrees and they wail, sort of in unison. This gets most of the rest of the class weeping, too. Except for Brett, who wants to play professional football. He does not cry, ever. The rest of them start to sob, and even Brett starts to look a bit blubbery. I don’t know what else to do except let it dissipate. It could go either way – they’ll settle down or they’ll engage in mass hysteria. It’s hard to guess with 3^rd graders.

I play a few quiet chords, soft and slow, just to see what happens. They do settle down and eventually Pratima stops crying, to my great relief. I begin to wonder if they intuit the yearning in the song – is that even possible? We’ve talked about the lyrics, about the herbs, about what else might be sold at the market (“In Boroughshire!” clarifies Peter.) And what a cambric shirt is. Just lightly touching on unrequited love.

We take three breaths together, which is what we always do before we make music together. They are – omg – angelic-looking on the risers in this cafetorium. I start the intro again and they whisper-sing and they sound angelic. Now I’m the one crying. They do not miss a single thing. Pratima grabs a box of tissues from somewhere and plonks them on top of the piano. I nod my thanks.

“Once more,” I play the intro again without a pause. This year’s Spring Concert is going to rock. In the cafetorium.