The Christmas Season can NOW begin.
Thanksgiving is done.
The Turkey in the Straw can now be exchanged for the Baby in the Hay.
The Wife dug out the Christmas music and has one of the CDs playing in the kitchen.
(That's one nice thing about living in the Little-House-On-The-Corner.
A $29.99 Wal-Mart stereo will pretty much cover the entire house.
Unless you close a door.
Or you're in the shower.)
She has Josh Groban on.
He's singing "Little Drummer Boy".
The song wafts into the Dining/Living/Computer/Family Room where I'm melded into the Chair, sipping the Elixir of Knowledge and looking out at a quiet snowfall.
The Elixir erodes the memory of
Jr. High Choir.
"Little Drummer Boy".
The girls got the melody and the words.
All eight of us boys got the "drum" part.
I guess none of us kids were coordinated enough to play an actual drum.
So we had to pretend.
With our voices.
It was a blend of Gregorian chanting and remedial reading.
"Bum.
Bum.
Paddy-paddy bum."
Which today, of course, would bring a class action law suit from the Irish Heritage Club.
So I'm "paddy-bum"ing in my head when the song hits me right between the memories.
"I played my best for Him."
Oh.
My best.
Huh.
Here's a kid with a little wooden drum, banging on stretched, dried goatskin with a couple of sticks.
It's all he's got.
And he's playing his very best for the King.
Giving it to the King.
Kinda like that kid with the dinner rolls and fish.
It's all he's got.
And he gave it to the King.
Whoa.
So what do I have that I can give to the King?
I guess it's, uh, today.
I can give Him my best - today.
There's work.
The family.
The computer time.
And the writing.
Yeah.
There's a Reason for the Season and for every day of our lives.
Huh.
So guess what I'll be humming the rest of the day . . .
yep, you got it.
Bum. Bum.
Paddy-paddy bum.