Beck the Halls
By Lynn Rebuck –
I like Christmas music, but starting in early November it’s omnipresent: it’s in every store, in every elevator, and on every station, including talk radio (I fully expected Glenn to release a “Beck the Halls” Christmas CD).
As I searched the mall for an omnipresent (that’s the one gift that I could purchase in bulk for everyone) recently, I heard blaring from the speaker systems of three different stores an unintended medley of clashing carols: “Silent Rudolph the Red-Nosed Manger.” It was more than my fried-by-“Feliz Navidad” brain could handle.
I sought sanctuary in a nearby synagogue to escape the cacophony of carols. I hummed “Dreidel, Dreidel, Dreidel” to soothe and center myself. I don’t mind the holiday music, but it is so pervasive that it is affecting my every thought and intruding into all of my family’s conversations.
The other night I could have sworn that my daughter approached me and told me of her plans to go out with her adolescent friends by saying the phrase “We three teens of orient are….” Maybe I’m just hearing things.
“Do you hear what I hear?” inquired one of my children the night before Christmas.
“Is it the little drummer boy?” I asked.
“No,” he said.
“You know,” I said, “I heard the bells on Christmas Day.”
“That’s nice, Mom.”
“Their old familiar carols play,” I continued, making conversation.
“Mom, you’d better lay off the eggnog.”
“Can I have a friend over?” my son continued, standing next to a kid I hadn’t noticed before.
“What child is this?”
“Which one is he? The Drummer’s little boy?”
“Funny, Mom. He’s the Taylor’s kid.”
“Joy to the world,” I said, shrugging my shoulders.
“Is that a yes?”
“What’s that smell?” interrupted another child.
“Chestnuts roasting on an open fire,” I mumbled. “Or it could be dinner.”
“Mom, can I go on a date with Paul?” asked my eldest.
“The little drummer boy?”
“He’s a percussionist in a rock band, Mom. And so what if he’s short, I just won’t wear heels.”
“When will you be back?”
“I’ll be home for Christmas,” she said.
I nodded and reached for more nog.
As she walked out the door, she called over her shoulder “You can count on me.”
“Did the box from Amazon arrive?” asked my son.
“Yes, it came upon a midnight clear.”
“I didn’t know UPS delivered that late.”
“’Tis the season, you know.”
You know, the three wise men were the first midnight madness shoppers, and they didn’t have any criss-crossing carols to contend with.
I am now in a 12 Steps of Christmas Recovery Program. Fa-la-la-la-la, la- la-la-Joy!
© 2011 Lynn Rebuck