Hold on. Not yet.
Wait. It’s almost time. If you’ve got a countdown timer, set it to three seconds.
Hang on ... hang on ... OK. Now.
Now it’s OK to crank up the Christmas music.
I don’t make the rules. Especially not any rule stating one is supposed to wait until after Thanksgiving to start celebrating Christmas with decorations and music.
I’ve read the Constitution, and there’s nary a word saying we have to wait.
But in my house, my lovely bride insists on appreciating Thanksgiving first. She’s a firm believer in acknowledging traditions, and as much as she loves Turkey Day, I can’t deny her those wishes.
Still, part of me remembers it’s 2020, and pretty much anything goes. If I could have figured out how to get it around her, I’d have had our tree up in April. I’d have hidden Easter eggs in it. I’d set off 4th of July fireworks around the branches instead of stringing lights on ’em.
Susie holds off on decorating. She stiff-arms all my attempts to warble any Christmas carols. (She stuck her hair dryer in my face this morning in an effort to stop my singing.) It could be because I can’t sing a lick, but she’s too sweet to say so. Key? Like, singing on key? The only key in my repertoire is the one Susie uses to lock me out of the house when I attempt to sing ... anything. How’s the old joke go? “They asked me to sing tenor ... as in, 10 or 11 miles away.”
At least once per day, I walk around our house and manage to step on our cat’s tail, producing a loud yowl. Any time I raise my voice in song, my wife asks, “Is the cat OK?”
What I lack in talent, I more than make up for in volume. Bless her patient little heart.
Now? It’s the day after Thanksgiving, and I’m ready to bust loose. Ain’t no stopping this Yule fool.
I’ll start with one of my all-time favorites: Whitney Houston’s version of “Do You Hear What I Hear?” Voice of an angel. Music to chill one’s soul.
Once I get going, I sound absolutely nothing like Whitney, but the neighbors are sure gonna hear what I hear.
I’ll run through the whole canon. I’m old as crap, and I’ve been collecting those songs for going on a hundred years. I can’t sing one of ’em worth a dang, but that ain’t gonna slow my roll. I’ll make Bing Crosby jealous (or maybe not) when I croon some “White Christmas.” I’ll “Rum-pum-pum-pum” my booty off to “The Little Drummer Boy.” I can do an Elvis lip curl to “Blue Christmas.” I’ll plead, “Let it Snow, Let it Snow, Let it Snow” knowing it’ll do no such thing here in East Texas. I might get a few leaves falling. That’s about it. It’s Christmas. I’ll take whatever I can get.
People will think I was one of the original Temptations (probably not) when I roll out “This Christmas.” I’ll stand with weird Cousin Eddie and Clark while I bounce to “Christmas Vacation.”
Naturally, my warped sense of humor will kick in. I know it’s Christmas, but my weirdness doesn’t take a holiday break. I’ll dig around for my “Twisted Christmas” collection, and I’ll try my best to sound like Nat King Cole singing “Chipmunks Roasting on an Open Fire.” I’ll freak out my wife with my version of “Walking ’Round in Women’s Underwear.” Can’t wait to sing “The Chimney Song” to my grandkids: “They’re something stuck up in the chimney and I don’t know what it is … ”
I’ll help pay for the therapy.
I’ll bop my booty off to Elton John’s “Step Into Christmas.” I’ll cry tears into my beverage moaning to the Eagles’ lamenting, “Bells will be ringing the sad, sad news.”
Then, finally — and mercifully, for my poor lady — I’ll sit back and listen. Just listen. All those beautiful songs reminding me of Christmases past and the reason we celebrate — those don’t need accompaniment, especially not from me.
We’ll put up our tree this weekend (finally), and we’ll have some nights when I do nothing but sit and stare ... and listen.
And I’ll do a lot of remembering with those songs. The weird Christmas versions were staples for our bonfires when my brothers and I were able to come home at the same time. I’ll think of when my daughters were small and pleading for the weather to “Let It Snow” just like I still do. I’ll hear Jordan trying to whistle the “Two Front Teeth” part. I’ll recall my dad and his Dean Martin impressions. I’ll think of standing guard duty trying not to hum, “I’ll Be Home for Christmas.”
I’ll think of so many people and what we were doing when we heard those voices and music.
I don’t know if the writers and performers had any of this in mind when they offered us those songs. I doubt it. None of ’em ever showed up for any of our bonfires.
I don’t even care. I know what the songs mean to my family and me.
So go ahead. Clear your throat and let ’er rip. Sing ’til your lungs want to blow out.
Do you hear what I hear?
Maybe not yet, but you’re about to.
"hear" - Google News
November 27, 2020 at 04:00PM
https://ift.tt/2V5OtCp
STALLARD: They're about to hear what I hear - Lufkin Daily News
"hear" - Google News
https://ift.tt/2KTiH6k
https://ift.tt/2Wh3f9n
Bagikan Berita Ini
0 Response to "STALLARD: They're about to hear what I hear - Lufkin Daily News"
Post a Comment