Defender of Choirs Everywhere!

It was a cool, crisp, Autumn afternoon. The golden rays of sunshine lovingly caressed the lake's surface as they disappeared from sight. Birds trilled, then hushed as evening fell.

In the distance, a sound was heard. Tentative and waivering at first, it swelled in chorus as melody tumbled out the doors of the old brick church. Scintillating lines, ebbing and flowing like the tide, wrapped the listener in delight. I was drawn in through the doors to the front of the glowing interior.

A small ensemble concentrated on the pages before them. Mouths opened and closed in unison, creating harmonies close to heavenly. Bathed in sound, I sat, enthralled.

Suddenly, a discordant noise broke my music-enduced trance. There, in front of me, sat a man, unwashed, unshaven, his eyes glazed by the poppy's elicit humor. "Hey," he said. Then again, "Yeah, I like that."

The singers concentration waivered. Notes seemed to fall from the air, broken from the magical spell cast over the audience. Still the man persisted. "Yeah. That's what I like. Yeah. I'm hungry. Want some soup. Yeah."

I glanced around. Had none other noticed this debauching of Heaven's highest art? Had none heard the lines of sweet melody shudder beneath the onslaught?

Fellow listeners looked away, hoping to recapture their own, personal moments of bliss. It was not to be. The man turned around.

"Hey," he said to me. "I like you."

My heroine's heart beat faster in protest to the crime against music the man was perpetrating. Could he not hear the notes fluttering in agony while his bold commentary raved on? Who was this man that he should attack the very thing I love the most and make a mockery of the performers? Someone had to act. But who?

That someone would have to be me, Defender of Choirs Everywhere.

"Psst." I whispered. "You want soup? Let me buy you soup." The man eyed me through a glassy stupor. His loud "Huh?" reverberated off the brick walls like ice snapping off a glacier, crack, crack, crack!

"Yeah, you. You hungry? Come on, I'll buy you some dinner."

The man lurched from his seat in anticipation of a feast. Calmly I lead him down the aisle and into the clear, cool air, taking his racous repartee from that Holy sanctuary, away from the tremulous chords longing to be heard.

As I closed the church door, I felt the song's parting notes grace my exit. The music swelled, the church doors closed, and I knew, in my heart, that medieval choral music was safe for one more day.