In Rememberance of Voices

And it is Christmas. I usually try to ignore the date and quietly move right on into January. I have almost made it. There were no decorations again this year unless you count the ones that the dogs wore to visit their friends and the health care facilities. And yes I admit that sometimes in a weak moment I ask them to wear something silly just to do a ride along in the car. They do look so festive.

I have gotten to attend two very different Christmas presentations. Last Thursday evening, Remi and I drove out through the large puddles and down the dark roads to the health care center to watch and listen to their Christmas production. A few outside musicians and several residents presented some holiday songs and shared joy with their families and friends. Most of the resident’s performances demonstrated a love for the sentiment of the season but not so much the ability to hit the right key. As you might expect ones breath control goes along with health especially when you are not called upon to sing around the piano with friends and family much anymore.  But there was no getting around the laughter and cheer and warmth that permutated the room. It was all good.

On Christmas Eve I drove my stepmother over to her church so that she could attend her evening service.  You need to understand that we are now on the other end of the spectrum of Christmas performances.  When did Methodist ministers start dressing like Catholic priests? I guess it had been awhile since I had attended church.

The church is large, fancy, well established and nestled into one of Cincinnati’s wealthiest neighborhoods.  I used to sing in the choir when I was in high school.  Christmas Eve music was always part of the magic of Christmas in those days only I remember the church as over flowing with standing room only in the back and completely filled with candlelight at the end.

The candlelight is still touching at the end as the lights are lowered but sitting up front I noticed that there would have been room for some additional stragglers. I guess I am not the only one who has wondered away from formal church services.  The music still dramatically tries to sweep everyone up in the message and mood of the night. In my opinion the flute player could have done it alone. No organ extravaganza would have been needed.  But then this particular choir hires a couple of soloists to sing with them every week and presented some sweet solos as part of their music.  I kept trying to see back to that sixteen year old me and wondered if I would have been qualified to sing in such a quality choir.  Sigh. I used to be able to sing.

In college I even enjoyed music enough to take lessons for two quarters.  I stopped when we realized that by the second quarter I would be required to sing before a “jury” in order to receive a grade. I was average. My grade average didn’t appreciate the hit.

Fast forward through thirty years of teaching. I only made it through the first 15 before I realized that what little voice I had was lost. Oh, I can still lead an amazing rendition of, “Five Little Monkeys Jumping on the Bed,” or “Little Rabbit Fo Fo,” in my lower register but don’t ask me to sing in a normal pitch. Those vocal cords are destroyed. Nonverbal students don’t complain (or grade) teachers that sing in their lower register. 

So now when I do go to events that expect “singing” as much as my heart may have memories of past wonderful experiences, I stand silent and listen and remember and miss singing.  I miss that personal lift that music can give the spirit.  Oh, the sound of others still grabs me but I miss being able to transport myself along with all the other sopranos in the Halleluiah chorus.  Now my voice remains silent even at the nursing home if that lets you know how gone it is.

It may be one of the reasons I avoid church.  The music was the part that mattered to me.  So, I loved that the residents of the health care center still had enough voice to be able to sing and that they didn’t have to worry that they weren’t good enough to sing with the soloists.

And I get to stand silent and miss my singing voice but enjoy theirs.  And I wonder how the child who was nonverbal and autistic felt as he sang with me with his “hands.” There was always so much more he wanted to say. 

Listen for the Bells

The gift cards are officially on their way and I made my way through Target earlier yesterday to pick up some items there.  I stimulated the economy in my own small way.  The dogs even have their 2012 dog licenses. So they are covered for another year. Merry Christmas! They have a warm home, a comfortable couch/bed, enough to eat. In these economic times, that is a lot. Now I will step back and try to avoid as much of the holidays as I can.

There was once a house rule that the Christmas music had to wait until after Thanksgiving.  It then played and played and filled the rooms with memories of childhood.  The tree actually got set up and it would entertain children with its lights, cats with its tinsel and the dogs with its build in round balls to fetch.  The children are gone. Tinsel isn’t good for cats and these particular dogs have never had a tree or ornaments to chase across the floor.

The sense of the season began to fall apart even before our own young children grew up to know that they would rather have “Santa” give them a gift card so that they could pursue their distinctive sense of style or needs.   Back when I was still in college one of the last of those old traditions got pulled.  I got home for the holidays to find there was no official, “Trip to find the perfect tree.” My step mother didn’t find it necessary or relevant for my father and I to find the special tree. My father’s wife kept chipping away at our childhood traditions because…well because, they were not hers.  I realized that Christmas could exist in a vacuum unattached. It might look pretty but have no real heart. She always lacked the ability to appreciate what is important to others.

In college I remember the warmth of friendships and caroling and rush of small gift giving (we were all “college” poor) that carried us through those last days of the term. There was magic in the air. Even final exams didn’t seem to dent the spirit much but then we were sort of geeks.  Then I had to return to Ohio and home and holidays just were not so warm and fuzzy there but everything sure looked pretty! 

Now every December I watch all the car commercials and jewelry stores filled with sparkly things.  I have to say that I travel in the wrong circles because I don’t know anyone who has gotten a new car for Christmas. I suppose it could happen but I don’t think that the big gift giving experience is what is missing.  I don’t want to hear one more commercial reminding me what I could buy…or where I could go to buy it. 

Maybe a quiet snowstorm and a purring cat in my lap with some Christmas music in the background will help.  I know that the dogs will want to go visit their friends at the health care facility later today.  The closest I get to remembering the feeling the miracle magic of Christmas is when the dogs walk through the room with their bells tinkling and I see heads come up trying to find what “lost reindeer” made that sound and there are smiles. 

For some the miracle of Christmas is the birth of a small baby and not so much about buying new cars.  But regardless of one’s personal beliefs Christmas does remind many of us that there was a time that we still believed in the magic of childhood and dreams of possibilities. Before we drowned in a history of dysfunctional family gatherings there was joy and wonder. In our hearts some Christmas still exists in most of us.  

They believe in the power and magic of dog bones.