I'll never stop saying 'Maria'

On Christmas Eve day in 1961, my parents dropped me off at the Mann Theater in downtown Minneapolis to see a new film they said was called "West Side Story."

"Your Dad and I have grown-up things to do," Mom had explained, whatever that meant. It was either a random movie I knew nothing about, or spending the afternoon at Aunt Dora and Uncle Max's dreary house.

"Your choice," Mom added. She then packed me a sandwich, gave me treat money and walked me to the ticket booth.

Between her quick kiss goodbye and the end of "West Side Story" the following happened: I hollered when Bernardo stabbed Riff and Tony stabbed Bernardo. I wept when Chino shot Tony. I fell head-over-heels in love with Natalie Wood's "Maria."

When Dad picked me up afterward I was a teary-eyed mess. He asked, "What's wrong with you?" I responded with a guttural, "Nothing!"

But he knew. I don't know how, but he did.

My family is Jewish, but we enjoyed the spirit of Christmas. Sometimes we each shared what Mom called something like "Christmas hopes," and one of our Hanukkah presents was opened on Christmas morning. That year they gifted me — a 9-year-old obsessed with the newly arrived Minnesota Vikings, Twins and all things professional wrestling — with the LP soundtrack to "West Side Story."

For the remainder of that Christmas vacation I had the house to myself because Mom and Dad both worked. All day I played "West Side Story" full blast on our hi-fi. I conducted an imaginary orchestra to Leonard Bernstein's score (using Mom's meat thermometer for a baton). I leapt and pirouetted onto and from the living room furniture with the Jets and the Sharks, belted out "The Rumble," "Officer Krupke," "America," and "Cool" and crooned "Tonight" while an imaginary Maria and I held hands on her fire escape — my kitchen counter.

And I memorized all of the melodies and lyrics.

No one knew.

When school resumed, Mrs. Turley invited us to show and tell about one Christmas or Hanukkah gift we'd received. Kids brought in holstered toy six guns, model train locomotives, desserts from an Easy-Bake Oven, a chemistry set. The biggest hit was someone's newfangled toy, an Etch A Sketch.

When my turn came, I showed off my record album and rambled on about the Jets and Sharks but mostly about Maria. That's when Mrs. Turley cut me off. At recess I organized a re-enactment of the "rumble" on snowdrifts and the jungle gym. Mrs. Turley was displeased with that, too, and called my parents.

However, that field trip was nixed by the school's administration, because for a split second the film's star-crossed lovers appear naked from behind. So instead, Miss B enticed us with 25 extra credit points to see the movie on our own and many more if we wrote up a comparison of "West Side Story" and Shakespeare's play. My loving expertise on the musical, my dire need for extra credit points and the anticipation of a naked Juliet on the big screen all incentivized me to ask Carol, a smart and pretty classmate, to collaborate on the paper and the research at the movie theater. She said yes to both.

Our date unfolded strangely: My longtime infatuation with "Maria" was bested by the film's sweet but saucy "Juliet." (Aka, actress Olivia Hussey, who instantly became many a teenage American boy's heartthrob. Google her photo. You'll see why.) Simultaneously, in the elegant Academy Theater's balcony, Carol snuggled her shoulder against mine. I liked what I thought was happening. But it turned out Carol was enamored with Romeo, not me.

I know this because after the movie she carried on about his "dreamy eyes" and "really cute behind." I had overlooked both. Nevertheless, I hoped that driving us around the city lakes in that midnight hour and singing a medley of "Tonight," "One Hand, One Heart" and, of course, "Maria," might do some magic. It didn't.

That I could sing show tunes from "West Side Story" somehow didn't impress Carol in that way. But that was OK. Sometimes things work out in ways you don't expect.

We teased each other about our giddy infatuations and shared a nice, between-friends moment when I said she was the only person alive who knew I could sing all the lyrics from "West Side Story."

Both times I'll raise a glass to the recently departed Stephen Sondheim and thank him for his perfect lyrics, the ones I learned when I was 9 and still know by heart 60 years later.

My Christmas hope for this year is that "somewhere" there's a 9-year-old falling head-over-heels for the new Maria, leaping off furniture and belting out "America" when no one's around.