THE SOUND OF MUSIC

It all started the day after Thanksgiving. 

I was driving into the Port, still savoring the turkey feast the day before at my daughter’s house and giggling about the crazy Pictionary game we played in front of the fire. I turned my Subaru radio dial to SiriusXM 104, thinking Billy Joel would be the headliner. Suddenly, “Silver Bells” wafted through the car speakers.

That was my mother’s favorite Christmas song. Hearing it ignited a memory of my wonderful Mom wearing the Mrs. Santa Claus outfit she’d stitched on her Singer and wore 23 out of 31 days in December —a red velour blouse top and long skirt — both trimmed in white fake fur — with a thick black elastic belt pulling the whole fabulous ensemble together. Hardly haute couture, not even hinting of Saks, just pure MomMom. 

Listening to, “Strings of street lights, even stop lights, blink a bright red and green,” I had to pull off onto the shoulder on Route 9.

Tears streamed down my cheeks. I couldn’t swallow. My nose flowed like the Colorado River in April. I was a hot mess, completely verklempt. Mind you, this was November 25. A month to go until….

I’m not masochistic but the only station I listen to in my car throughout December is “Holly.” And it’s proven hazardous to my equanimity.

Last week I was on the Maine Turnpike, driving to my orthodontist (stay tuned! good news about my braces ahead!) and I’m singing “Silent Night” along with the Percy Faith orchestra. Then we got to the second verse. “Silent night. Holy night. Shepherds quake at the sight….” 

Bingo. I’m transported back 75 years to the last pew on the right at the Central Valley Methodist Church, a house of worship 50 miles north of New York City in the hardscrabble town where I grew up. It was Christmas Eve, and my three older siblings (sister Robin, twin brothers Robert and Ross) and I sat flanked by our parents — ready to cuff us if we misbehaved, but who’d cuff anyone who didn’t think WE were the greatest kids in the world.  Unflinching, unadulterated love, that was their year-round gift to us.

Singing along with Percy and crew, I’m suddenly sobbing, hyperventilating, damn-near ululating, so overcome with memories of that long-ago Christmas Eve that I had to pull over onto the shoulder. And cry some more.

This scenario has repeated itself countless times this month. But last Sunday I realized that “Holly” on SiriusXM was not the only trigger to my December blubbers. Sitting in a pew at South Congregational Church in Kennebunkport, the Chime Choir opened morning services by playing “Once in Royal David’s City.”

The Chime Choir doesn’t sing. They bong and ding with delicacy, and the adagio tintinnabulation proved as powerful and moving as the traditional songs I hear on “Holly.” Wiping away my tears, sniffing quietly, I wondered why I was the only one afflicted by this holiday music syndrome. One familiar note evokes a Niagara Falls of emotion.

Years ago Edna Ferber wrote: “Christmas is not a season, it’s a feeling.” My cheer can turn to tears in a nanosecond. But I savor every salty drop because the poignant memories they spark prove that above all: Christmas is pure love and special memories.

———-

PS. If you missed receiving “Wandering” during the past few weeks, here’s why: Mr. Wonderful and I succumbed to various ailments. I had pneumonia, Bob had wicked bronchitis and a raging UTI that sent him to the hospital. We and “Wandering” are now back in the world of the living.  

And ready to enjoy some roasted chestnuts.