One of the cruel tricks of nature that occurs to boys as they reach adolescence is their vocal chords contract. This does not happen all at once. Over the course of several months the tight stretched strands that render most boys a soprano or high alto voice slowly loosen dropping the squealing to alto, tenor, bass and even baritone levels. Many times during this period one might feel confident speaking in his new register when suddenly out of nowhere without any truly scientific reason the chords tighten and a squeak cracks in the throat and abruptly makes it through the lips. Naturally this is quite embarrassing for the individual who is putting forth his best effort to ascertain the distinction of young man. As if this was not bad enough thirteen, the age at which this usually happens, coincides with the Jewish right of passage known as the bar mitzvah. Further details will unfold over the course of the next couple weeks, but let’s just say at this time that singing is involved. Fortunately, for Ron his lower register was well established by the time he was called up to recite. He stood there in his new suit with a shiny white yalmikah on his head and a blue striped talit wrapped around his shoulders not the slightest bit intimidated by the pressure of this performance. He stepped forward, did his part, and walked off victorious. Definitely hip. While the ceremony is known as the bar mitzvah the celebration that follows has become the major event. Many rival and a few even exceed the elaborate details and proportions of a wedding. Ron’s was no exception. Not that his parents were wealthy, but rather his father happened to work in the right industry to facilitate the extravaganza. He managed the Sands Hotel located on the far west side along Bluemound Boulevard in the fashionable suburb of Brookfield. The banquet hall on the first floor provided plenty of room for many tables and a sizable dance floor where The Joe Aaron Band set up to play while guests dined on filet mignon. As dessert was served Ron’s father announced there would be an open bar at the back of the room. At that time the band started playing and Ron along with others our age walked upstairs to the second floor where a double meeting room had been converted into a place for us to dance. Alan Leeb, a man with Buddy Holly glasses and a much more conservative suit than the one worn by the radio disc jockey, Bob Barry, was already playing records as we arrived. His taste in music was more conservative, too. He had only one record by the Four Seasons, and none by Frankie Avalon, Gene Pitney or Bobby Rydell. Pretending to go down to the banquet room to get some more food to eat, Ron and I headed to the well populated bar. Without ever raising the slightest bit of suspicion Ron grabbed a couple of screwdrivers, handed me one and walked through the crowd smiling. Since our mixed drink looked like a basic glass of orange juice we sat in chairs next to Alan’s wife and sipped our vodka slowly. When we attempted to repeat the process one of Ron’s cousins insisted on tagging along. So, when we reached our even busier destination Ron handed her a glass and I calmly took one for myself. There isn’t much else I remember about the party, but I do remember thinking that Ron’s cousin became considerably better looking after that second drink.
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