When Butterball Turkeys Collide

By: Shelly Reuben

When Butterball Turkeys Collide

This isn’t about my sister Selma.

It isn’t even really about eavesdropping on Selma and her friend Ellen.

It’s about girls and giggling and what a cultural barbarian I am and how inexcusably irreverent I can be.

I haven’t thought about opera in years and years and years, even though I would never turn down a good listen-to if someone offered me an earful of Puccini with a cup of tea. Madam Butterfly could never die too dramatically or Mimi cough herself to death too tragically for me. Hell, I can even spare a groan of compassion when everybody seduces, betrays, and jams daggers into everybody else in Pagliacci.

I am not very good at following the storylines, and unless the music is particularly melodious, my attention does have a tendency to wander. But I have, had, should, shall, will, would, did, and do have something in the nature of a vague acquaintance with the art form, per se.

I heard my first aria when I was reclining inconspicuously on the window seat behind the sofa in the living room of the house where I grew up. Selma and Ellen, good students, best friends, and in the cultural avant-garde of our family, were sitting on the floor in front of the fireplace, listening to ... I’m not sure which opera it was, but let’s say that it was La bohème.

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Younger sisters, as a rule, idolize their older sibs. I was no exception. Selma got good grades, won spelling bees, was on the debating team, was pretty, and even had a boyfriend who was a lifeguard. It just doesn’t get any better than that. So, of course, I considered her the be-all and end-all of wisdom, class, and savoir-faire.

There they sat (I peeked periodically over the back of the sofa), expressions of great spirituality on their faces. Music soared, drums roared, and voices lifted exultantly as two great lovers – spinning at 33 1/3rd rpm on our record player – were about to achieve a tragic crescendo resulting in certain death.

I don’t know if it was Selma or Ellen who started to giggle first. The progression of their outbursts was usually both Olympian and predictable. As smooth and seamless as synchronized swimming. This particular eruption began hesitantly, with the dubious tenacity of tippy-toes testing the elasticity of thin ice. Then it gained bravado. Got wider and fuller. Happier and sillier. Less and less reverential.

Giggles turned to laughter. Laughter took over. All control was lost. They flopped hysterically against the floor, stamping their feet, pounding their fists against the rug, tears streaming from their eyes. Laughing so hard that they cried.

Eventually, of course, the eruptions dwindled to chortles, to chuckles, to low-level levity. Then one of them, (they never knew I was there), gleefully whimpered, “All that tragedy. I mean, how much can anyone take!”

That happened when I was about sixteen. I hadn’t thought about my sister’s and her friend’s sacrilegious responses to Puccini for years and years and years. Until last night.


The Evening Sun

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