A Christmas Carol

...and its lesson

Every one of us, if we're fortunate, has a set of memories tied to the Holiday Season. As a break from the usual fare you find on “Out-Takes and Sidebars,” I’d like to share a favorite one of mine. Perhaps it will inspire you to take a few quiet reflective moments to remember yours, and to share them with someone close to you.

My memory story is about Christmas caroling with my dad, and some lessons I learned in the process.

Growing up Catholic in Bergen County, NJ, I attended St. John the Baptist elementary school. Back then, things like right and wrong, obligation, duty, and rules were a bit more black and white than they are today. Even if you weren't Catholic. This story has something to do with that, but a lot more too, but that's the setting and the context for my story.

Anyway, St. John the Baptist School had a choir. It sang at Mass, gave Christmas and Easter programs and was called upon for other special occasions. Once you reached fourth or fifth grade (our school was k-8 in those days) the sisters and brothers started asking about our interest in volunteering for the choir. Well, when I was a fifth-grader I guess there weren't enough volunteers, because we were assigned times to appear for an audition. As I recall, we had to sing the musical scale and a few lines from some songs I've long since forgotten. Although I left the tryout secure that I lacked the talent they were looking for, they must have seen potential that I wasn't aware of. To my dismay, I was drafted for the choir. I tried to object, but neither Brother Pascal nor my parents were very sympathetic. I was a choirboy.

This meant practices after school, wearing silly robes, and occasionally singing at Mass. As Christmas of 1961 approached, it meant something else. The choir was invited to gather on the Saturday night before Christmas. It was to be a father and son thing. We would meet at the rectory, and spend an hour or so touring area neighborhoods, regaling them with Christmas carols.

Well, this sounds real nice to me now, but it really didn't sound like a cool thing in the early sixties to a boy in fifth or sixth grade, concerned with more manly pursuits like army games and sports, and I really didn't want to do it. I was sure I wouldn't have to. But despite my protests, my dad said yes, we would.

Well, that day brought what was probably our biggest snowfall of that year. I remember it as about a foot and a half. I was sure I was saved, that the caroling would be cancelled, or at least we could stay home with a warm fire. But the caroling wasn't cancelled. I figured I could talk dad out of it, because of the snow and how cold it had become on a crystal-clear night. But no, they were counting on us to be there, he said, and besides, it would be fun. So we went, me unconvinced, resistant, and probably pouting about it.

The group was small. Whether because of the snow or otherwise, many of my choir-mates and their fathers didn't show. But we were about a dozen strong, and off we went. It probably took me a while to warm up the vocal chords, but much to my surprise it was great fun. Perhaps because we were the few who chose to brave the conditions, or just because Christmas-time does this to us all, we had a great fellowship and camaraderie. It gave you a wonderful warm feeling inside, to be out on a cold dark night, sharing this with other people, and sharing it with my dad.

That experience taught me a lot about a lot of things. That there's something to be said about being there when you're being counted on. That there are things worth doing that peers may think aren't "cool." That boxing yourself into your comfort zone can keep you from enriching your life. That sometimes your parents really do know what's best.

That night was one of the wonderful memories I carry through the years when I think of Christmas. And it almost didn't happen, and wouldn't have if I'd had my way.

Thanks for making me do it, dad.