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I Know Now
By Mary O’Brien
I know now not to bet on a sure thing.
Christmas caroling with Grandpa and the grandkids at a nursing home the Saturday before The Big Day? Piece of cake…and there would be cake and treats for all participants afterwards. The perfect ending to a memory-making afternoon. This I had promised.
I know now that my 86-year-old father, once blessed with a deep, rich and mellow bass voice now sings 1.75 pitches above the tone for which he aims. You know, the melody everyone else is singing a Capella because no musicians showed up.
I leaned toward my oblivious and progressively hard of hearing dad, aiming what was left of my contralto towards his left ear. I had lost my voice the day before and at this point all I could do was honk out “six geese a-laying” in the key of G whiz.
As we were at the tail end of the L-shaped line of carolers, no one could come to my rescue. My husband just grinned at me, Chesshire-like, and looked away.
Away at the residents in chairs and wheelchairs, some of their brows knitted together, staring at Dad, who smiled and nodded, increasing his volume and pitch another tone northward at the presumed encouragement.
My grandchildren, Harry 8 and Audrey 6, soldiered on, putting their little hearts into Away in a Manger while scanning the room for the promised treats, which I had already noticed included a paltry day-old heart-shaped cake on the small side and an even smaller bowl of fruit. For the entire company of residents, their guests, and singers. I imagined cookies and divinity accompanied by hot cocoa surely must be ready to roll out on a cart after our grand finale of O Holy Night, which was going to be a doozy if my dad had anything to say about belting out high notes as a former barbershopper.
I avoided eye contact with the reluctant song leader and kept an eye on the kids at my hip in their Santa hats. We had all worn hot, fussy Santa hats that sweated itchily in the overheated facility.
Joy to the World reminded me that I’d promised a special treat to the kids each time they made someone smile. I know now that was somewhat shortsighted as they had just completed piano recitals after which they would be given brownie points for the best post-performance bow. Leave it to my grandchildren to remember the roomfuls of smiles their deep, dramatic bows and humbly exaggerated curtsies had earned at recital.
Yes, Harry started with the bowing at the end of Here Comes Santa Claus while Audrey, quickly catching on, not only bowed but fluttered her little hands in prayer-like folds under her chin…her smile not unlike that of my husband, cheesy and insincere.
At least the residents were getting a show, which was the point. I guess.
All that to say that I know now there is a mild curse word in the second verse of We Three Kings of Orient Are. The kids were at the perfect age to get a thrill from legally saying the word “ass” in public, in front of adults. I sensed shoulders below me raising up and down with barely contained giggles.
I don’t know why my eyes get instinctively wide when I’m trying to pretend nothing is wrong, but there they went. Wide. Wide as my father’s mouth as he sung with gusto and bent knees, “OH, STAR of WONDER, STAR of NIGHT…”
I know now what hysteria must feel like when it creeps up your sternum – you tighten your throat against it, bite the inside of your cheek. But here it comes, a bubble of absurdity in the solar plexus, rising up to escape the stiff chin trying to maintain decorum but losing ground.
I search for a face, a pair of eyes to lock onto, to throw my serious intentions their way for their benefit. There! Little lady to the left eyeballing me and I think she might save me…when what does she have the nerve to do but wink.
As Harry and Audrey grin widely and take their bows, I lose my grip and begin to giggle at the most solemn and hushed moment when O Holy Night begins with sacred words.
Unfortunately for everyone, I snort when I laugh or cry, and at that moment I was involuntarily doing all three. The contagion of such behavior is widely documented. First the grandkids began to fall about the place like drunken musketeers while the carolers voices began to fall off one by one, hidden behind hands smothering grins.
Except for Edwin, my father. Without the ability to hear the song had ended, he was suddenly thrust into a spotlight, belting out a solo that would curl the hair of a yak. He creshendo’d the ending in eye-watering sincerity if not grace, hushing to the final, “o night divine,” which should have faded to a thoughtful, peaceful tonic. Whatever hambone had been awakened in him suddenly came to life, as this was his moment to shine. He filled his lungs, dropped his folder, spread his arms wide channeling Jimmy Durante and gruffed a memorable, “hot cha cha!” to peals of unbounded glee and horror.
And now I know.
Mary O’Brien writes from the comfort of her Celebrated Art Cave (spare bedroom) near Boise, Idaho. She writes weekly with Jumpstart Writing Workshops, as well as a smattering of smaller groups. She revels in looking for opportunities to capture memories and imaginings via daily life, nature and her impossibly bright grandchildren.
You can read more of Mary’s writing on The Write Spot Blog:
