The 12 Essays of Christmas, Day 9: The music

"Music is a moral law. It gives soul to the universe, wings to the mind, flight to the imagination, and charm and gaiety to life and to everything."
                                                                                  - Plato

AUBURN, Maine — It happens every holiday season. We finish eating our turkey dinners and watching morning high school football games when radio stations across the nation begin blasting away with holiday music.

The airwaves are saturated with several versions of "White Christmas" and "I'll be Home for Christmas" playing on hundreds of stations across America.

There is no holding back and it continues until New Year's Day.

I get to the point where I could listen to rap music after nearly a month of "Grandma got Run over by a Reindeer."

Serves her right for assaulting our senses.

Black Friday is usually seen as the green light for the deluge of holiday music to begin pummeling our senses with 800 versions of "Silent Night." Sometimes, I believe radio is a co-conspirator that helps trigger the nation's buying spree during the Christmas rush.

This endless holiday music makes us all yearn for Bruce Springsteen or "The Lumineers" on the FM dial.

I enjoy Christmas music but listening to it 24-7 for nearly month can be strain on my ears. The music acts like a drug as you drift in and out of stores looking for gifts.

The hardest emotion I have to confront during the most wonderful time of year is the holiday music that dredges up memories of Christmas past, and that stings, especially without our mothers and a father battling a disease.

Look, Bing Crosby, Nat King Cole and Johnny Mathis are crooners who can turn a bad holiday song into gold. But when I try to listen to Neil Diamond sing the "Little Drummer Boy" song, I reach for the dial. Neil should have stepped aside and let the Harry Simeon Choir take sole possession of that piece because nobody does that sweet holiday tune justice than the choirs' angelic voices.

If you had enough of Bing, Bennett and The Carpenters, pick up a copy of "The Snowman." It is 1982 animated cartoon featuring music by English composer Howard Blake. This 26-minute gem, which was nominated for an Academy Award in 1982, features choirboy Peter Auty performing "Walking on Air." 

You like Christmas music?

Charlie Brown and the Peanuts are tough acts to follow when they sing "Hark the Herald" at the end of their Christmas special. What makes this holiday TV special delightful is jazz musician Vince Guaraldi's music.

But their is nothing like the old favorites that never get old.

Look, Christmas music can be inspiring even if you are a nonbeliever like me.

The 12 Essays of Christmas, Day 2: The perfect tree

“Tradition: Sit with husband in a room lit only by tree lights and remember that our blessings outnumber the lights. Happy Christmas to all.” 

-Betsy Cañas Garmon

AUBURN, Maine - Nobody I know wants a Charlie Brown Christmas tree drooping in the living room.

Brown's fragile tree might work for the Peanuts, but here in the real world a runt like that one just wouldn't do in the parlor. 

Guests would talk about us. We can't have that. What would Martha Stewart think of us.

That explains why we go searching in the New England cold for the perfect tree to adorn our living room.

But it costs money when you are seeking perfection.

Selling out and purchasing a fake tree feels like I am celebrating an artificial Christmas. We did buy a small fake tree that would give Brown's worn-out plant a run for its money. We bought it at a yard sale, and it sits in our closed-in porch during the holiday season.

It's our back-up tree.

But imagine stumbling upon a vendor who sells you a fine, full Christmas tree to fit your budget.

He's out there, and he offers returning customers a cup of good cheer by knocking money off of the price of a tree. He doesn't do it for everybody, but he seems to enjoy trimming the cost for me, and I appreciate that.

For the last 10 years, this "guy" travels from Waterville with a forest of Christmas trees in tow and spends about a month selling them in Auburn.

Calling him a nice guy would be understating this human being's genuine concern for his fellow man.

Every holiday season, we seek him out and he enjoys our annual hour of conversation. He delights in seeing my son and loves hearing about his academic success in the classroom.

He is the reason why you can't write off humanity and declare the human race a train wreck.

We pay the man and drive away with our tree that will soon brighten our living room with the sweet smell of pine,  stunning lights and decorations.

I look forward to seeing him next year.

Setting up the tree and clearing out a corner of the living room is a quick-and-easy task.

But after the lights, wraps, and decorations are up and a flashing, bright star is placed atop of our tree, it is all worthwhile.

The tree connoisseur

My father taught me the art of choosing the right tree. He really knew how to pick them.

Dad would find something we could afford and haggle over the price of the tree with a stubborn vendor. These guys would have made great congressmen.

He scrutinized its appearance, checking for bare spots and damaged branches before making the vendor an offer he couldn't refuse.

Then came the Herculean task of jamming the tree into the narrow sleeve of an iron, home-made tree stand that should have been sold for scrap years ago.

Dad drove the stand up the stump of the tree while spewing adjectives that would make our ears smart. He directed his anger with every blow he took with a sledgehammer.

I can still hear those colorful words, along the clanging of the hammer, ringing in my ears.

Once the tree was upright, then came the decorations.

When I became a strapping young man, dad designated me as the official tree lifter. 

I carried my load.

Thanks to my father, I can pick out a fine tree at a reasonable price. But that rusting, old iron tree stand still sits in his cellar as reminder of Christmases long ago.

But I won't part with it. I will keep the hunk of steel as a warm reminder of those cold winter evenings picking out a tree with my father.