Christmas memories

Do you remember the week of Christmas movies NBC would show sometime between Thanksgiving and Christmas? For me those were way more exciting than Frosty or Rudolph. The Sound of Music, Home Alone, Beethoven, and Dennis the Menace were my favorites. I loved when my dad would laugh out loud at the funny parts and I’d have to explain what was going on to my younger brothers. Then one year I got to watch Jurassic Park for the first time and forever think of it as a holiday movie now. (Roy says it’s my Diehard.) Best scary movie EVER…with absolutely nothing to do with Christmas.

One time in my 31 years of Christmases my brothers and I convinced my parents that we needed to stay home from all Christmas Eve service obligations. My mom didn’t take much arm pulling, but my dad, being the responsible patriarch and lay leader, required some pretty intense negotiations. Oh, how I remember that Christmas Eve. We enjoyed a simple meal together, my brothers and I read and acted out the Christmas story with our nativity set for our parents, and the house was lit only by twinkly window candles and the tree. I remember heading upstairs for bed and hearing Jessie Norman singing carols on PBS as my mom prepared to finish wrapping stocking stuffers. I felt all was right with the world.

I wish for another Christmas Eve like that every year.

The best Christmas morning surprise I ever received was when I was 8. We’ve been Aldi shoppers for a really long time, and you know how Aldi has the Aisle of Surprises? I love going down that aisle still, because you never know what kind of toys or kitchen stuff or home decor they’ll have on sale. When I was 8 we walked down the Mystery Aisle and they had a whole bunch of toys on display. Among these toys was a collection of dolls. They were about the size of American Girl dolls, but only $6 each. I felt, secretly, that I was probably too old for dolls, but there was one that had beautiful auburn hair named Tracy and I instantly loved her. I told my mom this and she responded, as I expected, “Well, save your money and you can buy her yourself.”

I didn’t have too many opportunities to save $6 as an 8 year old, but I did scrounge and when we went back a few weeks later they were completely out of Tracy dolls. There was a blonde doll, but I didn’t want her. I cried silent tears through the entire store, ashamed for crying and being so disappointed over a doll, but heartbroken nonetheless. I later reset my sights on a Cabbage Patch doll, but knew that nothing would replace Tracy’s perfect face and dark hair. She had loved me too, I could tell.

Fast forward to Christmas morning. This is probably a month or two later, which as you know is a small eternity for an 8 year old. Christmas was on a Sunday that year and we were up early to open gifts before heading to church (my dad being the patriarch and responsible lay leader that he was). There were a lot of wonderful gifts for all and the mood was joyous and festive. Just as we approached the conclusion my mom handed me one hidden, final box. I don’t know what I was expecting—maybe a Cabbage Patch doll, maybe something else entirely. (My parents often purchased us gifts that we didn’t ask for but ended up being the things we loved most.) I carefully unwrapped the paper and saw the most beautiful face looking up at me. I screamed and burst into tears. (A very dramatic reaction for me, if I do say so myself.) I loved that doll and carefully brought her with me to church, left her buckled in the car, and brought out my bestest church friend to peek through the window to see her, secretly still a little ashamed at loving a doll so much.

Tracy still resides in my bedroom closet in my parents’ house. If I ever have a little girl maybe I’ll fluff Tracy up and tell my daughter the story that still makes me cry a little on the inside.

What are your favorite Christmas memories?

Update

We’re there. The musical is over! Both performances were well attended and went off without a hitch. Friday night’s performance was the first time the orchestra made it through the entire 45 minute show without getting off the click at least once. A feat we duplicated only once, on Sunday night. There’s something about getting it right the two times it counts that makes me feel like an Olympic athlete (which, as many of you know, is my secret aspiration-gone-by). There may have been a little fist pumping from the podium… Now that Almost There isn’t consuming my thoughts and calendar, you’d think I’d be sleeping a little better at night and have a little more time during the day. But I’m still having nightmares about forgetting my score the day of a performance or my co-director reaming me out for being unprepared. ‘Tis the season for joy and jolly…

Date Night In December. Roy and I have been ships in the night this month. We feel it, our kids feel it, our house looks it. We decided to do what might be the easiest DNI in the whole book this month just so we had a chance to sit down and relax a bit. We made white pizza with pickled peppers and sausage, a really good salad with homemade croutons and sun-dried tomato dressing, and Roy made incredible caramel popcorn with roasted peanuts that we snacked on while watching a movie in bed. We hope to aim for a more elaborate dinner in January.

Honesty. If I’m being candid, I’m weary. I’m physically weary—chasing two active boys around and putting out their scuffles, keeping Owen out of the breakable Christmas nativity scene, eating James’ gingerbread house, and pulling ornaments off the Christmas tree. I feel as if my attempts to do Christmassy things are only bringing out the controlling, frustrating parts of my personality, which is not good for anybody. (Don’t overlap your cookie cutter cuts, James. You’re holding the cutter upside down again. Don’t put two green ornaments right next to each other. Don’t eat the raw cookie dough Owen. Don’t Don’t Don’t.) I’m reasonably certain I’m not usually so nit-picky, and I think the stress of the month is aggravating it. I’m emotionally exhausted from feeling as if I’m constantly inconveniencing people. Inconveniencing my coworkers when I’m flying in last minute from dropping my kids off.  Inconveniencing my kids by having them spend so much time with babysitters in various locations. The late bedtimes and having to wake them up after they are already asleep to drive babysitters home. Students who deserve a more-prepared accompanist. A husband who deserves a wife who packs his meals ahead of time and spends a little more time thinking about what he needs in the midst of his chaotic concert schedule.

James has started talking in the third person again. Owen bit me this morning. I need a nap. Roy needs a nap and a day without sitting in a car for at least 3 hours.

We kind of see the light at the end of the tunnel. We know, on paper, that the week before Christmas will be home-centered and restful. We know that reuniting with dear family and friends over the holidays will be restorative and joyous. But feeling things is hard right now.

For those of you who are feeling the stress of this month similarly, my heart goes out to you. Take some time to rest if you can. A fifteen minute nap can be miraculous. So can a good piece of chocolate, a brisk walk, or contemplative classical guitar Christmas music. Find somebody whom you trust values you for who you are (not for what you do) and share a cup of coffee.

And know that it will be OK. There is grace and tomorrow is always fresh with no mistakes in it.

The One when I was a Human Metronome

I’m not sure I can adequately describe how frantic the past three weeks have been. Thanks to those readers who have contributed in sending encouraging texts, helped out with childcare, and/or attended some of the numerous performances Roy and I have had this holiday season. We’re already saying “never again” as far as the number of commitments we’ve gotten dragged into. (Some willingly, some kicking and screaming the entire way.)

This week, in particular, has been nuts. And, as a musician, a complete study in contrasts. For one thing, I haven’t touched my flute, which is my primary area of formal training. Instead, by day I am a collaborative pianist for a college trumpet studio. By night I am a director and conductor of a large-scale (dare I say) Christmas musical extravaganza. Let me attempt to describe the schizophrenic nature of this…

I’ve been accompanying trumpet students for a long time. Piano parts for trumpet repertoire are, largely, stupid. It’s either orchestral reductions of Baroque harpsichord parts where everyone knows when you mess up, or complex, rhythmic 20^th century sonatas that take weeks to put together with the soloist. Over the years I have learned most of the repertoire and know every single pitfall in the counting of Hindemith, Stevens, Kennan, Arutunian, etc, etc, etc.

So this week I’ve been catching. And catching. And catching. Hours and hours of lessons putting together music for juries. (Not a single Baroque piece…) I’m not sure I can adequately describe the rapid-fire adjustments that have to happen to smoothly anticipate and catch the hundreds of missed entrances I’ve corrected this week. It’s mentally exhausting, but at least it’s familiar. And there’s an inner satisfaction of knowing how hard I am saving these kids’ butts.

By night I am working with a twenty piece orchestra and fifty member choir of solid musicians. Many of them are professionals, all are more than capable of counting and coming in correctly. It’s a chance to finally forget about rhythm and focus on making beautiful music.

Except.

This darn musical is on a click track. I could write a separate entry on the atrocious click track for this production and how the voiceover reads like the guy was drunk based on the incorrect cues, meters, and wildly unstable click. I could tell you how hard we pushed the publisher to fix it…in 72 hours, knowing it would never happen. And how somebody in Nashville got bawled out and they actually redid the ENTIRE musical for us in time for our dress rehearsal. And how I cried tears of relief. But I won’t. ;)

Instead, by night I smash in my in-ears and turn the beautiful orchestra and choir almost entirely down in my mix and blast The Click until I fear for my eardrums. We play. And the clarinet soloist wants to add some rubato and stretch a lovely melody. I automatically start to ebb with her until I hear The Click. It’s like an electric shock goes off in my brain. “Do Not Follow. Do Not Adjust.”

The orchestra wants to push the tempo. The Click is my master. “Do Not Follow. Shut Your Eyes and Just Keep Conducting.” The choir wants to drag. Once more The Click smacks me upside the head. “Idiot. I am in control. You Shall Not Adjust.”

For, you see, The Click is attached to The Video, displayed for all to see. And if I fail to serve The Click, The Video won’t match the words or the choreographed movements to the music we’re creating in real time. The 45 minute production saps me of energy in a way I’ve never experienced before. Cueing musicians, giving the choir every entrance, word, and cutoff. Praying the others on The Click (piano, keyboard, drum set) are feeling equally as subservient as I so we stay together. All the while attempting to convey joy and Christmas cheer on my face so we don’t look like a bunch of kids taking a calculus final.

I collapse into bed this week unable to keep my eyes open, but my rapid-fire brain won’t shut up for at least another hour. My final thoughts each night have been the imagined dings of text messages from my fellow director or The Click.

I wake up the next morning and ebb and flow and jump and hang back a few more dozen times at the next trumpet lesson.

Coffee coffee coffee…