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“JULY 4, 1976”: A FOLKTALE FROM THE HELOTES SETTLEMENT by John Igo  Instead of a sermon that day, Our Lady of Guadalupe Church in Helotes had an organ recital by Marie Conley. Without preamble, Father Louis Trawalter introduced her. She was old, old—upper ’80s, maybe ’90s—but her fingers were agile. I can believe that she had introduced Khachaturian, Shostakovich, and Prokofiev to San Antonio with Max Reiter decades back, from her house/studio in the now long-gone Irish Flats. Her program was unannounced and there were no printed programs: “The National Emblem March,” a Stephen Foster, a colonial tune, “Battle Hymn of the Republic,” “Tenting on the Old Camp Ground,” an unfamiliar 19th century hymn, a minstrel show tune, “Rock of Ages,” a spiritual, a George M. Cohan song, “America the Beautiful,” “I Love You Truly,” and “Dixie.” Every resource of that organ was called into use: whispering, humming, fluting, booming, with bugle effects, drum effects, crashing and roaring, and chiming. Her “Battle Hymn of the Republic” was enough to give hackles; it was a martial hymn, with drums and muskets in it. It was not a pious sentimentality but a triumphant war cry. Her Hallelujahs floated over drums. Then she started into “Dixie.” Marie Conley was old enough that her parents would have had personal experience of the Civil War—and it remained with her, probably from childhood family stories. Her “Dixie” started somewhere off there in a mist, almost like music drifting across water, as if memory-blurred. Then she saw it more clearly, and the vision sharpened and the notes came clearer. The distance faded. Old emotions became new again; forgotten responses stirred and awoke. And those old fingers willed an urgency, a commitment , and an exultation that performances over the years have forgotten . The organ swelled and opened. A cause long-lost now, a 135 way of life that has been prettified into romance, a cultural identity obscured by time and clichés came through—direct, strong, beautiful , and doomed. That organ spoke as it never had before, and never would again. Marie Conley in a tacky old-fashioned blue dress and white blouse, with a ten-foot red Isadora Duncan scarf, leaning over the keys to be sure of her skills, became the Pied Piper, a Sibyl, and Bard recounting the history of the tribe. “Dixie” crashed to a halt and hung there, not to be violated. The pause after she finished was an exquisite tribute. Then the applause started and swelled, and went on and on—and on. She had reached more deeply into her listeners than they had realized. One young woman with a small child was crying openly. After Mass, I spoke with Marie briefly. She was elated at the response. Then she said, “Dear, it wasn’t right—it wasn’t just right!” “It was perfect,” I replied. “No, dear. I wanted to do a little ‘Rhapsody in Blue’— it should be there—but I couldn’t work it in.” “Your ‘Battle Hymn’ and ‘Dixie’ couldn’t need help. You did everything but a cowboy song.” She looked at me. “That 19th century hymn wasn’t a hymn—it was an . . . arrangement.” She smiled a conspiratorial smile and said, to head off comment, “Would you see me to the car, now, dear?” Holding my arm, that fragile little old lady left the church door, regally, through a group of awed neighbors. Elizabeth Schwarzkopf, that most regal of all singers, would have stumbled with envy at the sight. After she was gone, Father Trawalter said, “I didn’t know what I was turning loose.” I said, “You should hear her ‘Can-Can’!” “You knew didn’t you? But the ‘Can-Can’—I’m glad she didn’t work it in.” “Are you sure she didn’t?” He looked at me. I went on, “She has a gift for . . . arrangements.” He just smiled. 136 Texas Music [This is one of dozens of stories the author has compiled about the small community northwest of San Antonio where he grew up. He calls the collection “Folktales of the Helotes Settlement”— Untiedt] “July 4, 1976” 137 ...

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