Good story tellers never tell all their stories all at once. For this reason, I will be sharing several Christmas memories leading up to the big day. May all your families find peace and happiness in the New Year.
My Dad, Brother and I are often referred to by other family members as “the boys.” The boys have enjoyed Christmas in many places. We have celebrated in a tiny apartment across from my brother’s old middle school. Our hearts forever closer than the walls that surrounded our merriment. We have even spent Christmas in an old yellow VW bus. Hurling down the highway towards Grandma’s house, opening presents along the way.
Our favorite place to celebrate Christmas is Reidsville. Every year we boys share our holiday spirit at our Grandparent’s house. We celebrate with our Uncle Steve, Aunt Mary Lynn, Cousin Kellie and Cousin Neal. The whole family band marveling at the blessing of family as our Grands entertain us all. Now that band has grown to include spouses and great grandkids. Needless to say, the merriment multiplies infinitely with the company of our youngest celebrants.
Of all the places we have celebrated Christmas, there is one setting that is truly special. It is special not for place but instead for the holiday memories forged there. The year my Dad bought his first house, we enjoyed a holiday that had all the hallmarks of a classic Christmas. And like all great Christmases it centered around the securing of our new home’s first tree.
“You have to have a Christmas tree!” my Brother and I exclaimed in unison as we arrived on my Dad’s doorstep. With those magic words we coaxed our Pops to take us out to add the last essential decoration to our new home.
The three of us piled into the old suburban just hours before Christmas day and headed out to find the perfect tree. My Dad never let on that this was not the most ideal time to find such a tree. I suspect my Brother knew. I, however, was the innocent, gullible believer. My confidence ran sky-high.
Alas, once we hit the road my confidence took a hit. All the tree traders had packed up and left town. In their wake were giant worn patches of grass and empty parking lots. If you looked close enough you could still see the specter of smiling families and happy hucksters. We were too late.
Despite all this my Dad never showed discouragement. My Brother never signaled to me that our endeavors were a lost cause. And so we persevered.
Then came the miracle. One more lonely parking lot. One more missed opportunity. One more Christmas tree!
The tree laid smack dab in the middle of that empty lot as if waiting for rescue. In unison we rejoiced! We would have our Christmas tree after all. With giddy delight we all jumped out of the suburban and surrounded the tree. We took in the moment. We marveled at our luck. It was a scrappy looking thing. Not too far off from the tree Charlie Brown rescued in Charles Schultz’s classic tale. And like that my Dad scooped the tree up and secured it to the roof of our car. With our spirits again riding high, we made our way back home.
Finding the tree, however, was just the beginning. It was the catalyst of some of my fondest Christmas memories. My Dad rescued some Christmas lights from an old box. He found some ornaments in an old tin. My brother and I cut out snowflakes and strung together popcorn. We attached garbage ties to cereal box prizes and G.I. Joes. We hung them right next to the few Christmas balls my Dad had managed to scrounge up. And of course we added a make-shift star to top it all.
When we stood back, the tree was no longer the scrappy loner we rescued. Transformed, it glittered in ideal form. There would never be another tree like it. In the future we would not press our luck when it came to finding a tree. In the future we would add more traditional ornaments. No future tree, however, would resemble the miracle we had erected in our new home. To this day I do not remember what presents I opened that Christmas. What I do vividly remember is the feeling of us all working together to make our quaint little tree shine.
That first home has long been sold, but it still occupies a special place in my heart. It was a place where the boys grew up. Dad, brother and me. Learning from one another. Loving one another. Celebrating birthdays, graduations and all sorts of moments in between. But in many ways it all started with that first Christmas tree. We were bound together by the miracle. The miracle of family. The miracle of togetherness. The miracle of a life worth living.
We continue to celebrate Christmas in a variety of new and exciting places. From the new homes made by my Dad, Brother and me to the grand gathering in Reidsville. We come together. We break bread. We open presents. We hug and laugh. We remember loved ones long gone. We, the boys, celebrate Christmas.
I was recently reminded of this brilliance with the surprise re-recording of the Everly classic, Songs Our Daddy Taught Us, by Norah Jones and Green Day’s Billie Joe Armstrong. The new album, Foreverly, manages to please the ear at every turn. While Jones has long been known to have multi-genre vocal chops, Armstrong’s deviation from the comfort zone of his punk garage-rock scream is a true revelation. He has a natural croon that blends masterfully with Jones’s smoky feminine sound. The album’s arrangement and instrumentation are different from the Everly’s original recording. The record does, however, stay true to the Everly’s singing sound. The masterful harmonizing of Jones and Armstrong really sets the record apart from other cover albums. With so much music being overproduced and auto-tuned to death, it is refreshing to hear real singers singing real music, uncompromised. The album serves as a touching coda to The Everly Brothers body of work as yet another generation of musicians discovers their contribution to Rock and Roll.
