When I was a kid, the holiday season hadn't truly begun until the Christmas tree went up. We always got a real tree, which needed the end of the trunk sawn off, and invariably, it either didn't fit into the tree stand, or some of the branches were lopsided or it needed to be anchored to the wall to keep the cats from knocking it over. Furniture needed to be rearranged to make room for it, and of course, in the process of all this, needles went everywhere.
After that, my dad was in charge of putting the lights on the tree, while my mom clattered dishes and concocted yummy holiday treats in the kitchen. Christmas tree lights share the same tangling gene that clothes hangers do, and since they spend most of the year in a bin up in the attic, they have plenty of time to twist into knots and bamboozle the person unlucky enough to get the job of lighting the tree. (Helpful Hint: Plug in your lights before you put them on the tree, to make sure they still work. One year, John got all the (unlighted) strands perfectly arranged on the tree, then plugged them into to discover that half the lights didn't work. I learned some new words that day.)
At some point, my dad would get annoyed and start muttering under his breath, wondering who put the lights away last year, how do the dang blasted things get tangled so easily, and does she have to clatter those dishes so loudly, I'm trying to concentrate!
Then my mom would holler back from the kitchen, "Stop being such a Scrooge, it's Christmas!"
And THAT was when it was truly Christmas. Then we would decorate the tree, one of the cats would show up to take a nap underneath it, and the dog would go on a rampage, knocking ornaments onto the floor. We would have something yummy to eat and listen to Christmas music.
Every. Year.
Now that I'm married and have a family of my own, we have our own version.
As soon as Thanksgiving gets close, the Black Friday TV ads start, and there is always one with music. John hears the music and says, "Hey! It's the Smurfberry Crunch song!"
I roll my eyes. "Are you serious?"
"Yeah! Smurfberry crunch is fun to eat...something something something something...fruity treat!"
Roll eyes again. "You do know that's not a Post original song, right?"
"It's not?"
*sigh* "Are you really so uncultured that you don't recognize the overture to the Nutcracker Suite?"
"I guess so. And my parents never read to me either because I never heard of Make Way For Ducklings. It's a wonder you married me."
Every. Year.
After that, my dad was in charge of putting the lights on the tree, while my mom clattered dishes and concocted yummy holiday treats in the kitchen. Christmas tree lights share the same tangling gene that clothes hangers do, and since they spend most of the year in a bin up in the attic, they have plenty of time to twist into knots and bamboozle the person unlucky enough to get the job of lighting the tree. (Helpful Hint: Plug in your lights before you put them on the tree, to make sure they still work. One year, John got all the (unlighted) strands perfectly arranged on the tree, then plugged them into to discover that half the lights didn't work. I learned some new words that day.)
At some point, my dad would get annoyed and start muttering under his breath, wondering who put the lights away last year, how do the dang blasted things get tangled so easily, and does she have to clatter those dishes so loudly, I'm trying to concentrate!
Then my mom would holler back from the kitchen, "Stop being such a Scrooge, it's Christmas!"
And THAT was when it was truly Christmas. Then we would decorate the tree, one of the cats would show up to take a nap underneath it, and the dog would go on a rampage, knocking ornaments onto the floor. We would have something yummy to eat and listen to Christmas music.
Every. Year.
Now that I'm married and have a family of my own, we have our own version.
As soon as Thanksgiving gets close, the Black Friday TV ads start, and there is always one with music. John hears the music and says, "Hey! It's the Smurfberry Crunch song!"
I roll my eyes. "Are you serious?"
"Yeah! Smurfberry crunch is fun to eat...something something something something...fruity treat!"
Roll eyes again. "You do know that's not a Post original song, right?"
"It's not?"
*sigh* "Are you really so uncultured that you don't recognize the overture to the Nutcracker Suite?"
"I guess so. And my parents never read to me either because I never heard of Make Way For Ducklings. It's a wonder you married me."
Every. Year.
Ah. There's nothing like tradition.
(At this point, however, I think he does it to egg me on because he knows how much I hate to see quality music bastardized to sell crappy, sugary cereal. Sort of like the people who hated to hear the Beatles's All You Need Is Love used to sell diapers. **All you need is Luvs! Da da-da da-da!**)
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1 comment:
I, too, believe that Pyotr Ilyich Tchaikovsky is guilty of some form of temporal copyright infringement, somehow transporting himself to the future, watching some "Dungeons and Dragons" or "Kissyfur", seeing the Smurfberry Crunch commercial, and becoming inspired to write an entire symphony around it.
Tell John he is not alone.
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