Fifth grade is an awkward age. For guys and girls, things are happening to your body you don’t quite understand. For me, it was the realization that my parents weren’t perfect.
Outside our door, a group of carolers were singing Christmas songs.
My dad loved all kinds of music, and he was more than happy to open the door and enjoy the mini concert.
I was so excited to hear this wonderful music that had come right to our door! Dad reached into his wallet and pulled out a couple of dollars to put in the carolers collection hat. But as soon as they got their money, they stopped singing in the middle of their song and walked away to the next house.
“Hey! You didn’t even finish the song!” my dad yelled.
He slammed the door, and for the rest of the evening, the mood was dark and gloomy in our house, as my sister and I tried to become invisible.
All through the holidays, dad complained about the carolers. He couldn’t let it go. ”All they want is their damned money. I think we should dress you kids up in old dirty clothes and put you on a street corner downtown so people will give you money. If it’s all about getting money and ripping people off, we may as well cash in!”
I wasn’t entirely sure if he meant it or not. But I did have visions of standing on a street corner, scarf around my neck, standing next to my sister who would be holding a tin cup, hoping I didn’t run into anyone I knew.
After the holidays, life returned to normal, and dad stopped complaining about Christmas carolers. By next Christmas, I had forgotten all about the possibility of begging for money with my sister on some street corner.
Then, the sound of singing came from outside our house. The Christmas carolers had returned this year!
At that moment, I realized that my parents weren’t like Ward and June Cleaver, or Ozzie and Harriet Nelson. They weren’t like anyone’s parents I knew.
“Close the curtains! The carolers are here!” my dad yelled.
My mom bolted from the couch and ran straight to the big picture window we had, and pulled our curtains closed, while dad headed for the light switches and turned off our porch light AND the lights in the living room.
In an instant, our house was plunged into darkness, and outside our door, a group of carolers who were in the middle of a rousing chorus of “Hark The Herald Angels Sing” suddenly ceased singing.
My sister started crying, because she was terrified by the commotion.
I sat on the floor in the dark, fearing that my parents had gone insane, and wondering how I would possibly fend for myself once they were carted off to the mental hospital.
“Sons of bitches aren’t going to get our money and stop singing this year!” dad proudly proclaimed.
During the rest of sixth grade, I wondered if the other kids in my class knew that our house was the one who turned out the lights and closed the curtains on the Christmas carolers.
In fact, as time went on, and I entered seventh grade, I began to dread the thought of the carolers returning to our house. The stigma of being “that house”, and the whole idea of Christmas in general soured my enjoyment of the holiday season.
The days leading up to Christmas made me anxious and nervous, as I wondered if this would be the night the carolers would return.
The TV played in the living room, and whenever Christmas carols were featured on a show, I would have a moment of panic, thinking the real ones had arrived.
But that year, the carolers didn’t return.
Christmas came and went, but the carolers never ventured down our street.
They didn’t come the next year, or the year after either. In fact, they never returned.
Maybe singing Christmas carols door to door grew out of style after the mid ’60s. Maybe they stopped because of the way they were treated. Maybe word got out that my parents were whacked.
It’s been more than 40 years since the lights went out. I’m hoping that this will be the year that some jolly old souls with happy hearts and good voices will once again walk the neighborhood, and stop by our house to share some Christmas spirit.
I’ll be happy to contribute to the cause, just in case they do stop by.
But please, this year, finish the chorus for me, won’t you?
Merry Christmas!