Music used to be a real part of my life.
Now that I listen to books as I drive,
music is receding from my daily life.
Except; December.
December is music to me.
Hearing the songs activates areas of my brain as sugar does to my tongue.
Not the incessant screeching of Aretha Franklin’s album
(sorry to her majesty, but- really?)
Not the trumpet-y riffs on the muzak endlessly looping between
the twangy hippopotamus song
and a very young and screechy Michael Jackson
going on and on about momma and santa kissing.
No.
For me it is O! Holy Night.
Little Town of Bethlehem.
Joy to the World.
It is Cathy Orosi’s insistence that,
for the Sunday School program,
we learn ALL THE VERSES of the songs- not just the first and best-known one.
That we stagger our breathes to continue the swell of sound.
That we pronounce it ‘Gloria in Eggshellsees Deo”
To avoid overly sibilant esses.
It’s the tingly fizz of opening my mouth to solo on What Child is This?
and seeing that young mother holding a tiny baby in a far away night.
It is the elementary school assembly.
I’m part of the Silver Bells bell shakers.
I know that after we finish Joe Rozewski will move forward to center stage.
He’s dressed in a tattered coat and will sing his solo.
Blond hair,
clear and pure tenor voice,
Joey would make the adults weep as he held a small drum
and sang The Little Drummer Boy.
(For many it’s Bowie and Bing that come to mind when they think of that song.
For others it might be Tennessee Ernie Ford.
For me it’s Joe.)
It’s caroling with the Methodists.
(The Methodist church had the BEST youth group in Lincoln Place.
My friend Laura invited me to join them and it was wonderful.)
We walked to, I suppose, church member homes.
Songs were sung,
gift baskets handed out,
and off to the church for hot chocolate.
It’s hearing Aunt Margie sing O Holy Night as I turn the pages for Grandma.
Her quick nod as she reached the end of the page was my signal.
We are in the front ‘hallway’ in the Lincoln Place house.
A fire is burning in the living room.
Stuffed cherries and olives are in dishes.
Green AND black olives- that’s how fancy we were.
We’d already sung the kiddie favorites like Here Comes Suzy Snowflake.
We segued with Silent Night.
Now it’s time for Margie’s big guns.
Her voice was a gorgeous and soaring soprano
(although she also sang alto as needed).
She’d open her mouth and the song swelled through the room.
Up the stairs to the second floor.
Up, Up, up- into the attic.
I was sure it went all the way to the stars.
Those brightly shining stars in the song MUST have been able to hear that song.
To know that they were still remembered.
Remembered, at least, by this family.
With this song.
December songs stayed with me all year.
My sister’s favorite lullaby was Away in a Manger.
We shared a room and I’d sing it to her, night after night.
Later I’d sing it to my daughters as I rocked them to sleep.
Anytime of year.
As horrid as the canned and repetitive muzak is, I am grateful for it.
My ears know the season is here again.
I can go home and dust off the CDs
(and yes, the cassettes).
I find my Barbra Streisand Christmas Album.
Go to track #10.
I Wonder as I Wander.
Aunt Margie made me love this song, too.
Slow.
Reflective.
Questioning.
Dirge-like, actually.
Questioning this whole Christmas thing.
This miracle in a manger.
This night that just lingers on and on.
Why? How?
I close my eyes and hear all of those voices echo in my memory.
I hear Joey at school.
I hear Dan Sweeney and Tammy Redfield practicing for the church program with Cathy encouraging them to ‘e-NUN-ciate!’.
I hear Margie and my Dad.
I hear Jenn and Shannon in a pageant singing Joy! Joy to the World!
I’ll go outside several times this month.
(Actually- this is less proactive than it seems.
I live in Michigan.
It’s dark here in the morning when I leave for work.
It’s dark here as I drive home from work.
Basically- there are something like 5 hours a day of sunlight.
Or so they tell me.
I wouldn’t know.
This is one dark place to live in the Winter.)
But, while I’m out there,
I’ll look up.
I see Orion’s belt.
I find the Dippers.
And then the North Star.
‘I remember,’ I’ll whisper to it.
Pocket Change 