A Yuletide (Well, Kinda) Memory

During my walk this lunchtime (which, by the way, has become a futile effort in terms of exercise due to sporadic—at best—neighborhood sidewalk snow and ice removal), my playlist of Christmas favorites offered up the Phil Spector/Bob B. Soxx and the Blue Jeans version of “The Bells of St. Mary’s,” and a memory surfaced.

Back in old Waynesboro, Virginia, my hometown, there was precious little for high school kids to do of a weekend evening. There was especially precious little for kids who hadn’t yet fallen prey to the usual high-school pastimes of dating and drinking and such. Oh, there was the Skyline Drive-In (which was also, I’m sure, a great place for those who dated and drank). We used to pile a bunch of us into a car and go there to watch cheap scare movies and provide running commentary.

We used to collect stuff from our basements and attics and dress up the local statue of David (a be-fig-leafed replica of Michelangelo’s masterpiece) in the finery we scavenged.

We went to the local dine ‘n’ dance dive, the late and maybe lamented by someone High Hatter, where we dared each other to walk through to the ladies’ room (or the men’s room, depending) to buy two-for-a-quarter prophylactics from the machine therein (for prevention of disease ONLY). We then filled the condoms with water and held water balloon fights—usually, though, not in the High Hatter parking lot. Even we knew that was a sure way to get our asses kicked by humorless bikers.

After our evening of hijinks, we often headed to the local Pizza Hut (which is now home to Scotto’s Italian Restaurant, and has been for years) where we shared a pie or two and, invariably, played the jukebox. And this is where the memory starts.

At some point, one of our number—Cindy F., to be exact—discovered that among the usual top-40 offerings on the Pizza Hut jukebox was a version of “The Bells of St. Mary’s” sung by Bing Crosby. And from then on, whenever we went to the Pizza Hut with Cindy in tow, we knew that we’d be regaled with “The Bells of St. Mary’s” somewhere in the mix. Sometimes twice in the mix. And then…

And then came that fateful evening when Cindy loaded up the jukebox with quarters. And played “The Bells of St. Mary’s” over and over and over and over…

Well, it was not hard to tell which table had perpetrated this outrage. Every time the song would start again, howls of laughter would rise from our corner booth. Our crime discovered, our merry band was ejected from the Pizza Hut. A classmate who worked there told us later that the management finally had to unplug the jukebox to stop the onslaught of Der Bingle. It was one of Cindy’s finest hours.

Not really a Christmas memory—I don’t think it happened at Christmas—but brought back to mind by my Christmas playlist.

Ah hear! They are calling the young loves, the true loves, that come from the sea…