Many Decembers, many years…
Santa Claus Has The Right Idea—Visit People Once A Year.
(Victor Borge)
2011
The first thing at Christmas that's such a pain to me:
Is finding a Christmas tree
I didn't say a word. I didn't have to. I just stared.
Ducky looked abashed. "Well... you see… they played CharlieBrownChristmas at preschool…"
"And Lexi took it to heart. Fine. But she managed to find something that makes Charlie Brown's tree look lush. At least tell me you didn't pay for this!"
"Just five dollars." I actually gasped. "It was a charity fundraiser," he hastily assured me. "All the trees looked like this."
Okay… for sweet charity, I actually had to admit it was a cute idea. "But, need I remind you—how many boxes of ornaments have we up in the attic?"
We both stared at the poor, scraggly tree. Just one of our ornaments would make the poor thing lean; two would topple it completely.
Upon arriving home, Lexi had bolted upstairs with barely a, "Hi, Mommy." Now she tore back down, taking the stairs in clumps that made her father and I cringe. She plopped down in front of the tree with a thump that made my knees ache in sympathy and opened a boot-sized shoebox she had brought home from school two days earlier—the contents of which had been a highly guarded secret.
"I couldn't make up my mind. I wanted to make a star for the tree. And a angeow. So I made both."
She had needed the boot box because the star was huge. Gold tissue paper that had been shaped and hardened, then coated in multi-colored glitter, it was almost as big as a turkey platter. It probably weighed three times as much as the poor tree. The practical part of my mind was figuring we'd see bits of glitter all over the house until the place was torn down; the impractical part was gushing over how gorgeous the thing was. "Sweetie, that star is magnificent! But I think might be too heavy for the tree." (A gross understatement.) "Would it be okay with you if I put that on the tree at the store?" (Ducky had nudged me toward a huge tree the Christmas we started dating. It filled the front bay window and had been such a hit, I went over the top every Christmas after that.)
She hesitated. "I guess so… but couldn't we get a second tree for here? A big tree? For… aw the presents?" she hinted, managing to sound more hopeful than greedy.
"Good idea," Ducky said with a smile and a wink. There was a screaming pink and purple toddler bike being hidden from prying eyes (thank you, Uncle Jethro) and it needed a big tree.
"But I think this wiwh fit."
"Oh, Lexi…" I reached out a hand and stopped. "May I?"
She beamed at me and set the little figure in my hand.
The gold cord at the top showed it should be an ornament—but it was just the right size to top this bedraggled bit of botanical submission. Barely 5" from top to bottom, made of stiffened cheesecloth (probably leftover from the ghosts they'd made for Halloween), it had wings and a halo made of thin gold pipe cleaners and a head made of a pantyhose-covered Styrofoam ball. Wisps of spun white nylon, appropriately called angel hair, adorned the top of the head. Much like her collection of Amish dolls… it had no face. A critical eye would say it was lopsided, the wings were mismatched and the hair was a messy bird's nest just stuck in place. That critic probably would have missed that every person who went through the dining room stopped and stared at the little angel for minutes on end. The imperfect gluing of the nylon had created a face where there was none. It was endearing… and intriguing.
"She's smiling. I know she is."
"I can't see any eyes… but I just know she's watching everyone who walks by."
"I know. There's no face, but I swear I can see a mouth."
"You, too? I can almost hear singing."
I was as much in love with this little angel as my mother had been over the rocking horse ornament I made in grade school. "Lexi… she's perfect for the little tree."
"I couldn't get her face right. So I just weft her without one."
"She's beautiful as she is." Ducky's as much a sucker for homemade ornaments as I am.
Sturdier than I thought it would be, the little tree withstood a thin rope of popcorn, the trunk being wrapped in green and red ribbon, tiny candy canes taken from present corsages and seed beads strung on ornament hooks. All told, it made a cute dining table decoration.
And when Christmas was long gone and we were well into January, the lopsided tree was the last thing we took down—and Mother insisted on keeping the angel on her dresser between Christmases. Every time you walked past… you swore she was smiling at you.
2012
The second thing at Christmas that's such a pain to me:
Rigging up the lights,
And finding a Christmas tree.
"Oh, please be careful!"
It wasn't me cautioning Ducky, or Ducky cautioning me. No, Ducky was fretting over Abby scrambling up and down the ladder like a mountain goat. I couldn't even bear to watch her—climbing ladders at work, I can deal with. Outside? Forget it.
"I am!" she chirped. Loop—loop—loop. 'Back in the day,' Ducky had put hooks along the eaves and window frames. Took him a week to do it all, but it made hanging lights a snap for the next 25 years.
Like our mingled ornaments, we had a weird assortment of lights. Strings of big, fat, energy-sucking bulbs that he had brought from California and the tons Ray and I had divvied up when my parents decided a wreath on the door and a tree in the window was good enough. As the wiring died, they were slowly being replaced by more energy-efficient ones—but they look Christmassier, in my opinion. Tiny twinkle light, icicles, runner lights—we had it all. (Mother loves lots of lights at Christmas. Charlie found a house that had the lights timed to Wizard ofWinter by Trans-Siberian Orchestra and Mother went absolutely bananas over it. Charlie used the site to teach Mother how to save and go back to a favorite online.) We had taken care of the window lights and icicles, and Abby had decorated the outside trees before lunch.—but only big bulbs framed the roof of the house. Very right. Very traditional.
Abby scampered down the ladder and plugged the end of the long string into the outdoor socket. "Ta-da!"
"Oh, they look wonderful, Abigail!"
We had tested all the strings before anything else and replaced bulbs that had lost too much of their paint or coating or whatever it was. (I like the chipped ones. It's my version of Charlie Brown's tree, I guess. But I like the bits of clear light shining around the color, kind of like stars poking through a colored sky.) The rainbow of colors looked good even in the daylight.
"Nice job, Abs," I said. "Ready for some—"
The lights all went dark.
"Apple cider…?"
Frowning, Abby unplugged and re-plugged the lights. Nothing. Ducky checked the fuse box. Nothing.
"I forgot," Abby sighed. "With these old lights if one goes out—they all go out." She tucked some spare bulbs in her pocket and scurried back up the ladder. She did it logically, taking an extension cord up with her to try each of the eight daisy-chained strings individually. The first one was good. So was the second. It was the last string (of course) and the last bulb on the string (of course). Strands connected once again and back on terra firma, she surveyed her work with a critical eye. "There! We—" She sighed in frustration as the lights blinked off again. "Dang!"
Ducky held up a hand. "Perhaps we—"
He didn't get a chance to complete his thought. Around the corner, running for his life, streaked Foot. He wasn't being chased, but I had a feeling something starting with a "c" (child or Corgi) was probably to blame. He dodged and ducked the various people, but we put his trajectory off and he careened off the ladder. Before anyone could move quickly enough, the ladder started to topple to earth.
Unfortunately, the extension cord was tangled around it.
The ladder crashed almost in slow motion. Between the weight of the ladder and the extra distance, the string of lights—plugged firmly into the heavy-duty cord—came flying down from the eaves. The ancient hooks couldn't withstand the abuse; they gave way, strings of lights falling gracefully to the ground and hooks flying like shrapnel. As each bulb hit the bricks we were treated to tiny explosions—pop-pop-pop!—as they exploded, light after light after light after light.
The noise brought Suzy, Mother and Lexi running (or hobbling) from the house. The six of us just stared at the destruction in silence. After a long moment, Lexi summed it up pretty well:
"Wow."
Ducky shrugged philosophically. "We were talking about replacing them anyway…"
2007
The third thing at Christmas that's such a pain to me:
Hangovers,
Rigging up the lights,
And finding a Christmas tree.
The Irish Rovers recorded a song called "Wasn't That a Party" that pops up on the radio every St. Patrick's Day and disappears the other 364 days of the year. And that's a shame, because it's funny as hell. The chorus goes:
Coulda' been the whiskey,
Mighta' been the gin,
Coulda' been the three or four six-packs, I don't know,
But look at the mess I'm in—
My head is like a football…
I think I'm gonna die!
Tell me, me, oh, me, oh, my…
Wasn't that a party?
I can think of a few people who deserve that CD in their Christmas stocking…
The year we got married, in addition to doing a tour d'force Christmas dinner Ducky (and I) threw the Christmas party of all parties. We had kept the wedding list down for practical reasons (one, having that many people for a sit down dinner would break the bank—and while Mrs. Islington had arranged the whole shebang as a 'thank you for saving our corporate asses' gesture, there was no need to be greedy—and, two, with that many people, we would have needed to file charter as an emerging nation (Ducky knows a ton of people)). So, December 20, 2007, we threw open the doors and as two-week newlyweds played host and hostess to the free world.
Mother was in rare form. I mean that in a good way. She couldn't put names to faces very well, but she was "merry as a grig." For two days she helped me bake enough cookies and gingerbread to feed the city, helped Charlie decorate the house and told stories about Ducky and many holidays past—some sweet, some that made him sigh and groan faintly—and tales about family members long dead (and, from some of them, best forgotten)… and on the day of the party she wandered about the crowd in a festive cranberry colored lace gown, bouncing from one person to another and having a grand ol' time. She even got Gibbs to dance with her several times.
As the evening wore on, she got happier and happier. I was pretty sure she was hitting some bottle, somewhere. The fruit punch wasn't spiked, but the eggnog was—but only very lightly, since we'd hired a pair of bartenders and a couple of waitresses for the evening to deal with the real drinks. (They had been instructed to let Mother have a drink if she asked for one—but water it down like crazy.)
There were plenty of designated drivers to go around, which was a good thing. A number of guests kind of… oozed down the walkway as opposed to walking.
Cleanup wasn't bad. Charlie was, of course, invited, but wanted 'to be of service' so all evening long she flitted about like a glittery butterfly, gathering cups and plates as she went. Most of the post-midnight job ended up as putting away leftovers and cleaning the serving wear.
I put the remaining fruit punch in a pitcher—it actually had a lot of fruit juice in it and would be pretty good with brunch—and there was enough eggnog left for two big cups. I loathe the stuff, so I poured one for Ducky (who had made batch after batch Saturday morning and never got a chance to drink even one cup) and one for mother. It was only lightly laced with brandy, so it wouldn't hurt her, it would just be a spicy, cloying version of her nightcap.
She gave me a hug and a kiss, proclaiming I am the best daughter-in-law ever born. The fact that I'm her only daughter-in-law didn't detract from the moment at all. She took her cup and settled at the table, nibbling on gingerbread and gulping eggnog.
"The back yard has been policed," Ducky announced, coming in the kitchen door and locking it behind him.
"Thank you, sweetie. Saved you the last of the eggnog." I pointed to the mug on the table.
He smiled in delight. "Oh, thank you! Other than a taste while I mixed it, I never got a chance to have any during the festivities."
"I noticed."
He perched on a chair at the breakfast table and reached for a piece of gingerbread—only to have Mother swat his hand. "Donald, you'll spoil your appetite for dinner!"
"Mother, Saturday's dinner was hours ago. Today's dinner is eighteen hours away. I'll take the risk," he said drily. This time he was successful in snagging a piece "Besides, you only make this at Christmas and refuse to give out the recipe. It's my only chance!"
I grinned to myself. She may not give out the recipe… but I now know it because I took copious notes while she baked.
Ducky took a healthy swig of the eggnog—and began to choke. "Dear God," he gasped. "This is not the eggnog I made!"
"Well, it's the only one we have—ten gallon-sized jugs from the fridge in the garage. What's wrong with it?"
"Don't strike a match within five feet!" His eyes were sill watering. "This is almost pure alcohol!" For a man who drinks straight up Scotch, it must be pretty potent. "I made it very mild, who in the—" He broke off and looked at his mother sharply. "Mother," he said with dark trepidation, "did you add more alcohol to the eggnog?"
"Heavens, no."
We looked at each other, baffled. Then who—
"Just brandy."
Ducky looked from his mug of lethal brew to his mother. "How much brandy did you put in?"
"Just a toddle."
"Define toddle," he said grimly.
I help up my hand. "Did the bartenders open any brandy?"
"Just one bottle. There was a third of the bottle left, I put it and the other remainders in the closet to deal with later."
"Hang on." I ducked outside and checked the recycle bin—and came back bearing not one, not two, but six empty brandy bottles.
"Mother!" Ducky almost yelled. (No, strike that. Definitely a yell.)
"Well, Donald, your eggnog is very nice—but a little weak. It's for old ladies and schoolgirls!"
I almost swallowed my teeth to keep from laughing. (We never keep that much brandy in the house. I had a feeling that, come January, we'd be getting a bill from the liquor store down the way.)
"Mother, this would flatten the crew of an aircraft carrier!"
"Or one particular Marine," I said with a laugh. Fortunately, Gibbs hadn't been parked by the eggnog bowl. Other people, however, had been…
/ / / / /
The phone rang at a civil enough hour, ten a.m. The ladies of the household—from Suzy and Mother down to Charlie, all seven of us (Ziva had disappeared around eleven, but Abby had bunked on the couch for the night)—were chowing down on waffles, bacon, eggs and other goodies. The lone Y chromosome of the bunch answered the phone and the rest of us were treated to a one-sided conversation:
"Ah, good morning, Jethro!" (Pause.)
"We're fine… why do you…" (Pause.)
"Oh. Ah-ha. Yes, I discovered that last night—or, to be precise, this morning—" (Pause.)
"Oh." (Long pause, then he started to chuckle.)
"Oh, dear…" (Another long pause, full of more laughter.)
"Yes, I believe that's called 'a learning experience." (Pause, laughing, shaking head.)
"Yes—perhaps by Christmas."
Sill laughing, he hung up and returned to the table.
After a minute of not quite silence (he was still snorting quietly to himself) I prompted, "Well?"
Ducky grinned. "Well, we know who went back for seconds on eggnog… thirds… probably more: Anthony."
"Very Special Agent Anthony DiNozzo?" Abby said with a slight smirk.
Mother perked up. "That's an Italian name!" she announced in delight.
"Jethro got a phone call from Anthony."
I frowned. "Sunday morning?"
"Yes. He was calling in sick. Gibbs' team… is off for the weekend. Apparently Anthony wasn't sure of the day—but he left a message on Jethro's cell phone: 'I'm calling in dead. I hope.' Jethro said he sounded like he was… rather hung over."
Abby grinned wickedly. "He didn't even realize it was Sunday… maybe we should call Tony. You know—just to make sure he's okay."
Ducky shook his head. "I wouldn't." He enjoyed a bite of syrup-kissed waffle. "Jethro thinks he might—might be sober by Christmas diner…"
2008
The fourth thing at Christmas that's such a pain to me:
Sending Christmas cards,
Hangovers,
Rigging up the lights,
And finding a Christmas tree.
Oh, god.
I had no idea what I was getting into.
When we got married in 2007, I was so wrapped up in running hither and yon with wedding plans, I totally spaced sending out Christmas cards. (Ducky had sent his out the beginning of November. Showoff.) I sent belated cards in February, catching old friends and far-flung relatives up on the news that I had finally tripped down the aisle.
Over the summer, we made plans for the next Christmas. The baby was due in September; wouldn't it be darling to send baby-and-Santa pictures as our Christmas cards? Of course it would be! (Allie wasn't screaming and crying like a lot of kids do, but from the puzzled frown on her face I had the caption of, "Are you on Uncle Jethro's team? Are you working undercover?" in my head. It was still a cute picture. The inside picture of Mommy, Daddy, Grandma and Allie with Santa was even better. Allie was sitting up on Santa's lap and had her arms flung wide in a, "Yes, my adoring public, you may approach," gesture and a big ol' toothless grin on her face.)
While Ducky is very embracing of technology and he actually has a database for all of his addresses for Christmas, his backup list—the one from which any changes are made—is barely 20th century. He has a 2" deep digest-sized multi-ring binder with alphabet tabs and each person listed on a separate sheet of 4x6 heavy bond paper with neat blocks for name, address, phone—and, for the last couple of decades, email address. Many people have had addresses neatly lined out and reentered when they moved—some have 4 or 5 entries going on to the back side. Some even have a second or third sheet. He keeps the whole history—this notebook goes back to pre-college. The fifties, for heaven's sake.
I have a couple of hundred names in my address book (okay, okay, mine goes back to the sixties, schoolmates I actually keep in touch with). A lot of them are professional contacts. I keep in touch with a third or so of the people, exchanging Christmas cards (and getting those dreadful newsletters from some in return).
Ducky? He has over a thousand. Easy. Maybe fifteen hundred. And almost every single one of them sends a card in response. (Our first Christmas together, I saw hundreds of cards strung about the walls and figured he just kept a running line for several years. Ha. Ha, ha, ha. Wrong answer.)
I have to wonder—with Donald Mallard sending out cards world-wide (not to mention birthday cards all year long)… how the hell is the Post Office running in the red?
But, as noted, he updates his database regularly, so at least we can print out the labels.
Page.
Page after page.
Page after page after page.
Page-after-page-after-page-after-will-this-ever-end-page—
(Stop, change printer cartridge.)
—page after page after page after page…
"Do you even know half of these people?" I muttered under my breath as I signed my part of 'The Mallards' over and over and over. (Charlie had volunteered to print the "and Alexandra" part that weekend and to help Mother with her part of the signing, too. I love that kid.)
"Of course I do," he said, mildly astonished. (I had forgotten about his superhuman hearing.)
"Of course you do," I sighed, reaching for another card.
February,2013
The fifth thing at Christmas that's such a pain to me
Five months of bills!
Sending Christmas cards,
Hangovers,
Rigging up the lights,
And finding a Christmas tree.
With two nieces and two nephews, I knew long before I ever became a parent that Christmas with a kid in the house is a zillion times more expensive than Christmas without one, no matter how carefully you shop. It's just a law of nature, like E=mc2, gravity sucks and if you're trying to fill out a deposit slip on the way to the bank… all you hit are green lights. It was still a little stunning when we had statements from Visa, MasterCard, Citi, Discover and all the store cards on the table at once.
"It's not the paying that bothers me," Ducky sighed, going through one of the statements line by line.
Yeah; I have a feeling Lexi's goodie pile was still less expensive than the cost of printing and mailing all the Christmas cards each year. "It's not?"
"It's paying for toys in February that were broken by the second week of January."
"Planned obsolescence."
"Do they make toys out of cast iron?"
"You bet. Tonka trucks are indestructible."
He brightened. "Truly?"
"Yep. Didn't even chip paint when the kid next door used it with a roundhouse to Kevin's shoulder. Kevin, on the other hand, got a broken arm and twenty-six stitches… but the truck was just fine…"
2013
The sixth thing at Christmas that's such a pain to me:
Facing my in-laws,
Five months of bills!
Oh, I hate those Christmas cards!
Hangovers,
Rigging up these lights!
And finding a Christmas tree.
You can always tell. If your husband, wife, significant other, fill-in-the-blank comes up and starts rubbing your shoulders without any prompting from you… you can tell the difference between your better half is feeling warm and smushy and wanted to make you feel good—and your better half is trying to soften you up for something big. This was definitely the latter.
But, hey, I wasn't going to blow a good thing. I was pretty sure he wasn't going to ask for anything totally beyond question. He hadn't even mentioned having a second child beyond wondering if being an only child would be good for Lexi. (I pointed out that he had been an only child and had turned out pretty fabulous. Game, set and match to me.)
"I'm glad your parents don't mind switching to Christmas dinner instead of Christmas Eve."
"Nah," I said lazily. (Ducky gives wonderful massages.) "It was a tradition only because of my grandfather. He'd have to be at the paper early morning, and wanted to see the kids open their presents. So they rolled dinner and presents together for Christmas Eve and it just sort of stayed in the family."
"Mmh. Charlotte came to an understanding with her late mother's family—she was not going to give up Christmas with us, especially after Alexandra was born. They were willing to accept Christmas Eve instead."
"You had a lot to do with that."
He made a little "well, maybe" huff and continued to work on my sore muscles. Ducky had kept in touch with Mrs. Kemmelbacher after Charlie's going-away party in '07, gently helping her work through her prejudices and bigotry. That she—and the rest of the family—showed up at All Souls Unitarian Church in 2010 was nothing short of a miracle. "I'm just glad things are better. For Charlotte's sake."
"So am I."
Silence for a while as he kneaded and rubbed. "You know that the girls are all helping out at the Salvation Army dinner on Christmas Eve."
'The girls' always meant Lily, Ev and Charlie. "Uh-huh." Usually they helped out with the prep work for a few days before, but "Sally" had more than the normal amount of people showing up and they were short helpers. Ducky and I would be there, too.
"Well… ah… Charlotte was hoping… that it…" he stammered.
Ah. Now we're down to the nitty-gritty. "Yes…?"
"Could we make space for Mr. and Mrs. Kemmelbacher and the various aunts and uncles? For Christmas dinner, that is?"
That's all? "Honey—you're the one who's doing most of the cooking. I have no objections." Granted, she was still a little strained around Ev and Lily. It was reminiscent of Tom Lehrer's National Brotherhood Week ("It's fun to eulogize the people you despise—as long as you don't let 'em in your school.")—but she was miles ahead of where she had been six years before.
He sighed, relieved. "Good." He leaned over and kissed my shoulder point. "I'm sure it will be a wonderful evening."
/ / / / /
In case anyone was keeping score:
Ducky.
Yours truly.
Lexi.
Mother.
Suzy Bailey. (With kids and grandkids to hit, this would be her third Christmas dinner of the day.)
My mom.
My dad.
Ray.
Barb.
Ray and Barb's kids: Sharon. Allison. Cory. Kevin. (Only Kevin was still at home. The others were starving college students and smart enough not to turn down a free meal.)
Leroy Jethro Gibbs.
All the Gibblets (as Abby called the group): Anthony DiNozzo (and girlfriend). Tim McGee (and fiancée). Ziva David. Abby Scuito. Dr. Jimmy Palmer. Mrs. Dr. Jimmy Palmer (Breena, who was expecting next spring). (They were there without Jimmy's mother, who had passed
away only this last summer. She was a very sweet lady; we all missed her.)
(The director, a gentleman I'd only met twice, had declined Ducky's invite, saying his family had their own Christmas traditions that he didn't dare change.)
Charlie.
Ev.
Lily.
Charlie's boyfriend (who would undergo much scrutiny, I was sure), a pleasant young theatre arts geek named Josh.
Mr. Kemmelbacher.
Mrs. Kemmelbacher.
Charlie's aunts and uncles: Evangeline. Rachel. Leah (who had scrambled up the courage to come out to her parents last year; another Ducky intervention success story). Luke. Matthew (who had been out of town and missed Charlie's send-off).
Thirty-three people. (We planned to eat buffet style.)
Ducky went with a huge turkey (traditional; his turkey is the bomb) and a roast beef that was almost as large. Side dishes by the dozen. Desserts almost as plentiful. If you went home hungry, you weren't paying attention.
Lexi and Charlie were dressed in older/younger sister matching dresses, dark green velvet (washable velvet; I'm no dummy) and white lace, matching white patent leather Mary Janes—and looked absolutely adorable. They walked down the stairs side-by-side; I don't know which was more stunning, the fact that Lexi was five or Charlie was fifteen. Lexi was in kindergarten… Charlie was graduating.
(Great. Now I feel old.)
"Uncow Jethro!" Manners flew out the window. Lexi made the last few yards at a dead run, plowing into Gibbs and knocking him back a step.
Before I could scold her, he scooped her up, laughing. "Hey, Peanut!" Hugs and giggles. "Was Santa good to you?"
He knows that she knows there's no such thing as Santa. She knows that he knows that she knows. Doesn't matter.
"Uh huh! I got a new bike, a big bike. An' a ginormous thing of Stinkertoys." (Stinkertoys. Snort.) "An' Wegos. An' books an' books an' books! An' Mommy is going to make a wittow quiwt for the bed you made for my dowhouse, just wike my quiwt!" Her eyes grew wide. "And the rocking chair—it wooks just wike the one in my room!"
He gasped. "It does? Imagine that!" (He took a dozen pictures over the summer.)
"It's the best dowhouse, ever!"
"Agreed," I laughed. "I never had a dollhouse that cool." Gibbs had made a darn good dollhouse-sized replica of Mallard Manor and given it to Lexi for her third birthday. Each Christmas (heck, any holiday he could think of) her presents included furniture for the house. This Christmas had been the last bits for Lexi's bedroom, several pieces for the dining room and a few living room pieces. Ignoring the mess in the attic, he should have the house furnished by the end of next year. He even wired it so the lights light up and you can make water run in the sinks. This is going to be a family heirloom, something Lexi will want to pass on to her daughter.
(Great. Now I feel really old.)
Lexi leaned over his shoulder and cocked her head. "Hewwo. Do you work with my daddy?"
Mrs. Kemmelbacher looked startled and I realized, hey, yeah, this is the first time they've crossed paths. "Ah—no."
"Lexi… This is my grandmother, Mrs. Kemmelbacher," Charlie explained. "My mother's mother."
"Wike Nana is Mommy's mommy?"
"Right."
"Oh. Okay!" She grinned at the newcomer. "Hi!"
Mrs. K. smiled and even laughed. Nobody is immune to my kid. "Hi!"
Lexi twisted back to Gibbs. "Is dinner soon?" she whispered. Loudly.
"Soon," he 'whispered' back. "Your daddy put the turkey and the roast on the table and I'll start carving—" He twisted his wrist. "Now, actually."
Lexi gave what I call her 'hot damn' hoot. "I wuv daddy's turkey. He makes the best turkey!" She kept up a line of chatter about food all the way to the dining room. I was already hungry; with her commentary, now I was starving.
"Uh—Peanut, hold on a sec. Hey, Duck—where'd you put the turkey?"
We were behind Gibbs by a few people. Ducky gave a 'where else?' scoff and laugh. "On the table, of course."
"Sure about that?"
We slipped through the crowd at the doorway and I gasped. Both platters—turkey and roast beef—were empty. Only juices on the serving wear gave us a clue that they had been full at one time.
And the tablecloth and place settings were a little… askew.
"My turkey!" Ducky bellowed, hurrying around the table. He dropped out of sight.
"What the—" I tore around the other end of the table—and tried not to burst out laughing.
Ducky was sprawled on the floor grabbing futilely at a turkey that was halfway underneath the china cabinet. He'd pull it out an inch or two… and then it would be yanked back the other direction. From under the lowboy to his side, the butt end of the roast could barely be seen. Two arms—er, paws—stuck out from beneath the china cabinet, claws hooked into the bird. Back and forth they went, Ducky cussing and snarling and Foot (I recognized the fluffy white paws) snarling and hissing in response. (You didn't need a translation to know that Foot was cussing as much as (if not, more than) Ducky was.)
The roast was still edging toward the wall. I grabbed at it—then jumped back with a yelp as Siamese claws hit my hand. Pyewacket had taken early retirement and come to live with us and was probably thinking now he'd died and gone to heaven. An entire fifteen-pound roast, all to himself! "You ratfink!"
Ducky was still struggling with Foot over the turkey—and losing.
"Duck—I don't think anyone's gonna want to eat that bird," Gibbs said, trying not to laugh.
"It's the principle of the thing!" he growled. I'd never seen Ducky so, um, vehement before. I suddenly remembered my bridal shower, stories told by the then-NCIS Director, Jenny Shepard. At the time, I had doubted her tales of Ducky's derring-do; now, I had to wonder.
At that moment Tyson came dashing into the room, barking like crazy. This might get ugly. He skittered under the china cabinet—
—grabbed the turkey… and tugged. Away from Ducky.
Two to one. Foot and Tyson won, Ducky landed on his butt, there were muffled giggles around the room—and I racked my brain, trying to think of who would be open on Christmas.
I looked around the crowd. "Um… pizza, anyone?"
2014
The sevenththing at Christmas that's such a pain to me:
The Salvation Army,
Facing myin-laws,
Five months of bills!
Sending Christmas cards,
Oh, geez!
I'm tryin' to rig up these lights!
And finding aChristmas tree.
"Thank you, dear…"
"Bless you…"
"Thank you, sir…"
Lexi tugged my arm as we crossed the end of the parking lot onto the sidewalk. Without asking (I didn't need to), I reached into my pocket and pulled out a handful of change. As we entered the mall, she dropped the change into the kettle, earning a, "Thank you, dear," from the woman ringing the bell. We were halfway into the shoe department when I realized Ducky was stopped just inside the door, looking back at the woman with a curious expression. "Ducks? Ducky?" No answer. "Ducky?" I called, a little louder.
He started slightly, smiled and joined us. "Sorry."
"Lost in thought?"
"A little… do you know where mall security is located?"
I stared at him. "Uh, yeah, mall offices are next to the movie theatre. What—"
"Why don't I meet you at—ah… where?"
"We're stopping at Gothix first."
"That will be fine." He gave me a smooch on the cheek and planted a kissed-fingertip tap to Lexi's nose and hurried off while I was left wondering what the hell was going on.
By the time Ducky joined us, Lexi had found a pretty black stretch lace top for Abby and I was debating over a vampire video game or a t-shirt reading, DEAD MEN TELL NO TALES... UNLESS YOU'RE IN FORENSICS. (I ended up giving her the game; Ducky gave her the t-shirt). "Okay. Spill it. What was that all about?"
"I was fairly sure I had seen that bell-ringer before and… I was correct. Do you remember a bit on the news a few years ago, a woman who set up a website where she blogged about her daughter having cancer? People donated thousands of dollars—hundreds of thousands—she even shaved her daughter's hair off to make it more convincing. The story she gave out was that supposedly she earned too much to qualify for Medicaid but her insurance had capped out."
Sad to say, it's a story I'd heard a couple of times over the years. Some people are so scummy. "I think so…"
"This one was almost local. Just outside Chantilly. Mary Cooper, the daughter's name was Melissa."
"I remember! So—did the Salvation Army get her on the right path?"
He shook his head. "I asked security if they had anyone ringing for donations. Yes, they do—four, one on each main entrance. There was some sort of mix-up, five people showed up. One of them said he was called to cover someone they thought couldn't be here anyway, so he would just go to his original assignment. When security contacted the Salvation Army… all four bell ringers assigned here today are men. And Mary Cooper is not with the group at all."
I sighed. "Merry Christmas," I said dolefully. Ducky draped an arm about my shoulders and gave me a squeeze. "How did you know? How did you recognize her?"
He looked down at me with an almost rueful smile. "I was one of those who donated."
2014
The eighth thing at Christmas that's such a pain to me:
I WANNA TRANSFORMER FOR CHRISTMAS!
Charities,
And whaddya mean, 'YOURin-laws?'
Five months of bills!
Oh, making out these cards,
Honey, get me a beer, huh?
What, we have no extension cords?
And finding a Christmas tree.
I'm dead.
I have died… and gone to hell.
I don't know what other description to give for a trip to Toys-R-Us… the day before Christmas.
Mother had seen an ad for a super-deluxe-neat-o-keen-o-nifty-beyond-words jewelry kit and Lexi had fallen in love with it. Not just a big box of beads and charms and wire and crap (she had plenty of those)—no, this included a rock tumbler, polishing and grinding equipment, a big box of neat looking rocks and minerals and semi-precious stones and all sorts of stuff. (Adult supervision required. No, really?)
Ducky was sure I had picked it up. I was equally sure Ducky had picked it up. As we scrambled through the pile of toys we were wrapping, Mother was almost in tears. (Fortunately Lexi was at a Girl Scout Christmas Eve party all day—party, toys to the children's ward at the hospital, caroling—and wouldn't be done until almost eight, just in time for Emily mason to drop her off at church tojoin us for the second pageant performance.)
"We'll get it," I promised. "Call the store," I said in an undertone to Ducky. "I'm not driving over unless it's there for dead certain." He tracked down one—one out of four stores, got them to hold it and, with Lily, Charlie and Ev helping Mother wrap gifts (the woman turned 106 last spring; the fact that she knows it's Christmas is astonishing)… and we braved the biggest toy store in town at 4:41 p.m. Christmas Eve.
Okay—if we're nuts for crossing the threshold… what does that make the parents who entered Geoffrey's domain with children in tow?
Ducky actually flinched back from the chaos. "I'm too old for this," he moaned faintly.
I grabbed the arm of his coat as he turned to run and I leaned close. "This is your mother wanting a special gift for our daughter. There is no way in hell that I am going in alone. Got it?" I growled. He nodded wordlessly. Guilty? Terrified? I didn't care which. "March, Mallard!"
I couldn't blame him. I would have bailed, too, only he beat me to the attempt—so I had to be the brave one.
"One of us gets the box from the hold room, one stands in line." I've seen shorter lines for the women's room at the stadium. Disneyland, even. "Flip you for it." I pulled out a quarter; he called heads and I got to stand in line. He grabbed a stray cart to use as a battering ram, squared his shoulders and plowed into the fray.
I stood in line, trying to ignore the goings-on around me.
"Yes, ma'am, we did get a shipment in this morning, but that was at eight, they were sold out by nine."
"So what was I supposed to do? Sleep on the goddamned sidewalk?"
"We had a hundred and twenty-seven people who did."
"I saw it first! Get your slimy hands off of it!"
"The hell you say, you may have saw it first, I grabbed it first, now, giveit!" (Poor grammar and rude—two-for-one special.)
"Ma! Ma! Gimme the Star Wars Legos!"
"I told you if you asked for even one thing, you'd go wait in the car with your father!" (Wonder if they flipped a coin, too.)
"Hey! 'at's my cart! You took that Barbie Penthouse and Barbie Corvette outta my cart! Put 'em back, you bitch!" (I stifled my giggle, suddenly thinking of the license plate holder that read, I want to be Barbie, that bitch gets EVERYTHING!)
"A-a-a-a-AH-AH-AH-AH-a-a-a! A-a-a-a-AH-AH-AH-AH-a-a-a! A-a-a-a-AH-AH-AH-AH-a-a-a!"
My spine stiffened and my fingers spasmed into claws as I heard a kid going into full tantrum mode.
"Christopher! Christopher! You knock that off this instant! If you don't shut up—I'll make Santa take all the presents back tomorrow!"
(Come on, lady. You take a Christmas-hyped-up kid into Toys-R-frigging-Us the day before Christmas and in a crowd just slightly smaller than the population of Rhode Island—and you're shocked when he has a meltdown?)
But the threat of Santa as something close to an extortionist worked. Christopher didn't really stop crying, but his volume dropped and he walked alongside the cart as his mother moved down the row, making hiccoughs and snuffly noises.
Trying to ignore the other squabbles, tantrums, hysterics and threats I stared straight ahead—and caught sight of the t-shirt in front of me:
He knows if you've been sleeping…
He knows if you're awake…
He knows if you've been bad or good,
So be good, for goodness' sake!
Santa Claus—kindly Christmas elf… or CIA spook?
Hmm. Good question…
2008
The ninth thing at Christmas that's such a pain to me
Finding parking spaces,
DADDY, I WANT SOME CANDY!
Donations!
Facing my in-laws,
Five months of bills!
Writing out those Christmas cards,
Hangovers!
Now why the hell are they blinking?
And finding a Christmas tree.
"Yes!" Ducky did a 'ka-ching!' fist drag and I laughed. "Prime real estate!"
"It's a parking spot, not beachfront property in Malibu."
"True—but it's the first spot right by the front door that's not a handicapped spot!"
"True," I echoed. I waited a minute. "But we just finished shopping, drove down from the parking tower—and were driving past the front of the shopping center to get to the other light at the other entrance. We're done shopping."
He sighed. "That's right, burst my bubble…" He gave me sad puppy dog eyes.
I shook my head and tried not to laugh. "Well, it is a bookstore, I'm sure we could find something…"
He grinned and bailed from the car. He was still happily muttering, "Front row parking spot!" over and over as we entered the store. If I could have put a bow on it, it would have been his favorite gift.
2012
The tenth thing at Christmas that's such a pain to me:
Batteries not included?
No parking spaces,
BUY ME SOMETHIN'!
Get a job, ya bum!
Oh, facing my in-laws!
Five months of bills!
Yo-ho, sending Christmas cards,
Oh, geez, look at this!
One light goes out, they ALL go out!
And finding a Christmas tree.
"I don't… freaking… believe this!" I snarled as I dug through the fridge.
"Nothing?" Ducky asked, doing a similar search through the junk drawers in the kitchen. (We had already torn apart the garage.)
"Nothing. Well, nothing that would help—you know, plenty of fruit, veggies, milk, cheese, you know—food? But batteries? Nada."
"I was so sure we bought some at BJ's the other month," he sighed, shutting the drawer with a tiny slam of irritation.
"We did. And we replaced the batteries in the remotes, the wireless mouse, half a dozen toys, CD players, radios…" My shoulders sagged. "Impossible as it seems, I think we used up all of them."
"We have two choices," he said as we headed back toward the living room. "Steal the batteries from everything else in the house… or go to one of the pharmacies or 7-11s that are open 365 days a year—"
"And pay twice what we would at Target or the supermarket—which is insanely higher than Costco or BJ's already? Thank you, no."
"Then we have to explain to Alexandra that until we get batteries tomorrow, many of her toys will not function."
I sighed. "I know she'll be pretty good about it—but this is Christmas. It's human nature to want to play with your toys on Christmas." He gave me a slightly wicked look. "Hey, sport—we're gonna need batteries, too." His naughty look became a thunderstruck one. "Yeah. Oops."
There was a peal of the doorbell. I glanced at the clock: 9 a.m., way too early for even any of the NCIS contingent. I opened the door. "Paulie! What brings you here at this hour? You should be home, opening presents, having breakfast…"
When I first met him, Paul Sugarbaker had been a scrawny kid down the street who practiced shooting hoops day and night and regularly got hassled over his name. Over the five years since Ducky and I got married, "little Paulie" had shot up to be a 6'4" terror on the court. He wasn't as tall as some of the pros out there—but he was fast and he was accurate. And he was a polite, helpful and charming young man. "Good morning, Mrs. Mallard. Dr. Mallard." He grinned. "Already opened, already ate. I'm out drumming up business."
"Business? You already shoveled the drive and the walks—" Ducky looked at him curiously.
"Nah, this is Christmas morning business. Last year, my mom bought my little sister a bunch of toys that use batteries. And she forgot to buy the batteries. And I know she's not the only one who's done this, so…" He stepped aside to reveal his old wagon, brim-full of brown lunch bags folded into packets and neatly marked AAA, AA, C, D and 9. "I bought a ton of batteries at Costco and did my own packaging. Buck-fifty a bag. Four double or triple-A, two C, two D, or two niners. Interested?"
After we had giddily parted with the cash and Lexi was showing her grandmother how to operate her new robot, Ducky shook his head. "That young man," he proclaimed, "will go far in his world."
I nodded in agreement. "You can say that again."
2011
The eleventh thing of Christmas that's such a pain to me:
Stale TV specials,
Batteries not included?
No parking spaces,
DAD, I GOTTA GO TA BATHROOM!
Charities!
She's a witch...I hate her!
Five months of bills!
Oh, I don't even KNOW half these people!
Oh, who's got the toilet paper, huh?
Get a flashlight...I blew a fuse!
And finding a Christmas tree.
Saturday morning. Christmas Eve was—gah!—only a week away. But thanks to the ever-organized Dr. Donald Mallard, we were ready to go. Boxes of decorations for the party and dinner stood stacked by basement door, ready to be opened and flung about the house. Presents were wrapped and very well hidden. (Gibbs had volunteered his house as a hiding place for Lexi's toddler bike and then said what the hell, stash everything over here. It was a good thing, too, because Lexi and Mother had been busted no fewer than three times in their systematic searching of the house.) The lights were strung artistically all over the property (thank you, Abby) and the walkways and drive were kept clear of snow on a frequent basis (thank you, Paulie). Now it was just a matter of keeping our usual chaos under control.
I love my daughter to pieces—but it is, more often than not, easier to do things without her help. I always find a couple of things during the day to specifically invite her to join in so she doesn't feel unwanted—but laundry is not one of them. It's just easier for me to hoist the basket and haul it down to the basement, even if it's three baskets. (For years Ducky had used a laundry chute—until one of the dogs managed to get in the swinging door on the second floor and fly all the way down to the basement. This was Taffy, a dog from many years past and long gone—the fall didn't kill her (it didn't even hurt her), but it scared the pee out of her. Literally. Ducky cleaned the chute from top to bottom—then did it again, two weeks later, when Puck (another former resident) did the same thing with the same result. (Apparently riding the laundry chute was the canine version of a roller coaster.) Ducky sealed up the entrance doors and started hauling the laundry to the basement manually; we were looking at building a laundry room off the kitchen because we were both sick of this routine.)
So I was wandering past the living room, lugging Mother's laundry basket, and saw Ducky and Mother perched on the couch, watching TV. I could just barely see the top of Lexi's head from where she sat on her daddy's lap. He was keeping her occupied and out of "assistance" mode. They had played outside for quite a while, played in her art room after that; now it was TV time. Because of Christmas specials, we (we!) watched more than we usually did—but I was amazed; over the past couple of weeks I thought we had seen every Christmas special to appear on television. What was left?
I parked the basket and sidled over. "Whatcha watchin?"
It was some sort of animated show. Santa was pretty obvious, the elves were recognizable, and there was an ice skating snowman. Ducky canted his head back. "I… have… no… idea…" He sounded almost drugged. He gave me a glazed look. "We started off with Frosty, the Snowman. I remember How the Grinch Stole Christmas after that…"
"Something we've seen at least five times since Thanksgiving."
"Then there was Pink Panther's Pink Christmas… Inspector Gadget Saves Christmas…" I snickered. "Santa Versus the Snowman… The Great Santa Claus Caper… Starring Raggedy Ann and Andy," he clarified when he caught my look. "The oddest one by far was Santa Claus Conquers the Martians."
"Good plot?" I fought to keep from laughing.
"Words fail me."
"Why don't you… change the station?"
Lexi had been leaning against Ducky, watching the show through half-closed eyes. She abruptly sat up and cried, "No! It's a good show!"
Even Mother gave me a pleading look. "Please? The snowflakes shall dance again, soon!"
Ducky's look was long-suffering. "That's why."
I leaned over and gave him a kiss. "I'll make it up to you later," I whispered.
"Too late. I will be brain dead."
"Brain dead… I can work with." I gave him another kiss and a wink and, shaking my head, went back to the laundry. Santa Claus Conquers the Martians? I definitely had the easier job.
2015
The twelfth thing of Christmas that's such a pain to me:
Singing Christmas carols
Stale TV specials
Batteries not included?
No parking?
WAAAAAAAAAAH! WAAAAAAAAAAH!
Charities!
Gotta make 'em dinner!
Five months of bills!
I'm not sending them this year, that's it!
Shut up, you!
FINE! YOU'RE SO SMART, YOU RIG UP THE LIGHTS!
And finding a Christmas tree!
We went through it all—some good, some… not so good.
It started the month Lexi turned three. All of a sudden we were hearing Santa Claus is Coming to Town. Repeatedly. Repeatedly—and not necessarily on key.
Even when I was in school, I hated sitting through Christmas assemblies. Each class sang one or two songs, then the entire school sang the finale (usually The Twelve Days of Christmas) and unless the sixth graders (who had developed a little more singing ability by then) really belted it out, you could still tell that the music teacher was pounding out a C chord—and the kids were hitting everything from A to G. (Ray always said grade school kids sing in the key of "L"—"It sounds like 'ell, doesn't it?")
Church choir and choir in junior and senior high school were a little better; you had to try out for those choirs, which kept out the kids who a, didn't want to and b, couldn't carry a tune with a handle on it.
Things didn't change when I became a parent. It was actually worse—in addition to sitting through several shows at school, there was practice time at home. Lots and lots of practice time. We worked hard to find a balance between supportive and saving out sanity. (One more year of Santa Claus is Coming to Town and I, personally, will snap.)
I love my daughter. I adore my daughter. I will even sing with my daughter (and other family members). This does not mean sitting through the preschool and grade school shows was a joy. But I did it. So did Ducky. So did Mother, the first couple of years, anyway. (Later on, the video camera was a godsend.) And Ducky and I had the same trying-not-to-look-too-plastic smiles on our mugs that my parents had had all those years.
The year she hit five, she noticed—really noticed—the Christmas services at church. It took some verbal tap dancing to explain why the choirs at church sounded so much better than the groups at school… without stepping on toes or hurting feelings, that is. (The littlest kids at church—first grade and below—still operated under Tom Lehrer's comment about the army (in this case, the singing groups) 'carrying the democratic ideal to its logical conclusion in the sense that not only do they prohibit discrimination on the grounds of race, creed and color, but also on the grounds of ability.' Second graders and above can try out for the choir; below that, everybody sings—just like in grade school, whether you can or not and whether you want to or not.) Granted, that was the year the first grade kids sang Away In A Manger and in the three-second gap between the end of the song and the anticipated applause, the moment of silence in the church was broken by Drew Shryock piping up, 'I'm gonna sock you one, Conrad!' The applause was delayed while the entire church exploded in laughter (and Bitsy, Drew's mother, tried to sink through the floor). But the 8 p.m. pageant was very nice despite that less-than-holiday-inspired sentiment and Lexi couldn't wait to hit second grade and try out for the choir.
Girl Scouts, choir, karate class—each year, something new got added. Each year we ended up volunteering (ha!) for more stuff at school. Each year I swore there weren't enough hours in a day or days in a week… but things managed to get done. We bent the laws of physics to the point of breaking… but things got done.
Choir practice was twice a week, Tuesday and Thursday for the St. Cecelia choir (many years ago there had been a St. Matthew's choir for grade school boys—but it fell by the wayside before Ducky even moved to Virginia), 3:30 to 5:00. The junior/senior high choir (mostly girls and an occasional boy) practiced from 5:00 to 6:30. With both groups, it was abut an hour of actual practice and a half hour of screwing around. The adult choir had the Wednesday evening slot from 6:00 to 8:30 (they always had the toughest pieces and actually practiced the whole two and a half hours). From November through December, everyonepracticed their usual days plus Wednesday from 5:00 to 7:00 and then the adults stayed on til 8:30. (And when you were practicing with the adults in the room, you didn't screw around—too many kids had parents in the adult choir.) Take-out became a way of life.
The songs Lexi was learning for school weren't the same as the ones for the church pageant; while I was still ready to bang my head against the wall over TheLittleDrummerBoy (heaven help us, the first graders were singing that at church, too), JingleBells and Al lI Want For Christmas Is My Two Front Teeth, I was content to listen to Ducky play the piano while Lexi practiced Angels From the Realms of Glory, Gloria in Excelsis Deoand We Three Kings among other songs. Ducky helped her out by singing other parts, frequently drafting Charlie, Lily, Suzy or me to help Lexi stay on track. (Ev cheerfully admitted that she would be a hindrance, not a help.) And by sheer repetition we all learned new songs for the school show, songs for Hanukkah and Kwanzaa. (Nothing for Ramadan or Winter Solstice. Inclusive? Harumph.)
Lexi practiced any chance she got. She'd grab the trash in the kitchen, singing Silent Night as she went out and come back through the kitchen singing Light One Candle. (All those years of watching the Peter, Paul and Mary specials and I never noticed that was a Hanukkah song. Color me oblivious.)
"Deck the halls with hunks of Molly—"
Ducky almost dropped his tea on the floor. "Alexandra!"
Lexi scampered back from the living room. "What?" She looked at him, baffled.
"Is that what you're singing at school?" He looked at her in horror and I smothered a laugh.
She grinned. "Not on stage…" She skipped off, singing, "The restroom door said 'Gentlemen…'" And laughing.
"Don't worry," I reassured him. "Don't you remember singing, 'Jingle Bells, Batman smells, Robin laid an egg' as a child?"
He looked at me with an even stronger look of horror. "No."
"Oh. Maybe it was an American thing." He shuddered faintly.
From the hallway came: "Good King Wenceslas' car backed out, on a piece of Stephen…"
He grabbed my arm as I passed. "What if she sings the wrong lyrics?"
I shrugged and grinned. "I never did."
/ / / / /
Fortunately the "big shows" for the choirs are all on Christmas Eve; Christmas morning service is the usual times if it falls on a Sunday or 9:30 on any other day. (I don't even consider the 6:00 a.m. service. Get real.) Since we now celebrated Christmas on Christmas, our schedule wasn't bothered in the least. The usual suspects would be there for dinner, and everyone was going to be at church with us for at least one go-round or another. And I do mean everyone.
Ziva was always comfortable coming to Christmas dinner at Ducky's even before I came into the picture. And Santa had always given her a stocking. But she had politely declined going to Christmas Eve service, saying it would probably be very crowded with people who didn't normally attend services, it wouldn't be fair, et cetera. So I was a little surprised to see her arrive at the house with Abby. Not unpleasantly surprised, just… surprised.
I pulled Lexi aside as everyone figured out the logistics of people and cars. "How did you get Auntie Ziva to agree to come with us to church?"
She looked me straight in the eye and, without a flicker of remorse, said, "I cried."
Heaven help her future husband.
/ / /
The pageant is pretty much the same every year. (Come on, it's not like they can change the plot.) They hunt through the high school kids to find a girl who is able to walk slowly (very slowly) down the center aisle with a high school boy able to do the same by her side. She has to look ethereal and beatific; please, no face piercings or tattoos. She has to be able to sit for most of the pageant with her hands together, with almost no movement. (Joseph, at least, gets to receive the gifts from the Wise Men.) She has to look good in blue. The choir of angels standing on risers behind the manger has the same duty—stand still and look saintly. Fortunately they start with the biggest angel, often a former Mary. About ten minutes later, the two angels a half a head shorter join her, one on each side. And so it goes for the whole of the show until the littlest angels join them for the last ten minutes. I've always had a sneaking suspicion someone dropped some sedatives in those kids' punch; getting a 4 year old to stand darn near perfectly still for ten minutes has to involve drugs.
But before the pageant we have the little kid classes doing their songs. No Santa Claus Is Coming to Town (it's a progressive church, but not that progressive). Little Drummer Boy (yea, only one more show—the kids only perform at the pageant times, not the midnight service), Away In A Manger (sans interruption this year), and Silent Night, to name a few. The theory is that if they get the little kids through their part early on, if they start getting too restless the teacher can take them back to the classroom (or their parents). Seems to work, they've been doing it for years.
At key moments during the pageant the massed choir would come in with a song—my favorite is when the Wise Men are slowly walking up the aisle, each bearing a nifty-looking box, with the choir singing We Three Kings to accompany them. It's especially nice because they pull three baritones from the adult choir to do the solos for the three Magi—and there is one dude whose voice is so low he almost rattles your seat. Awesome.
Before and after the pageant there's also a short sermon; the key elements are already woven in the show. (Because it's word-for-word the same sermon every year, there's no problem with Fr. Knowles doing the pageant sermons and Fr. Parker doing the midnight service; there's no way Fr. Doesn't-Shut-Up can run overtime.)
This year there was something a tiny bit different. After Mary and Joseph trudged back down the aisle and the angels slowly turned and filed off the risers and Fr. Knowles did the wind up… several members of the choir came out from behind the set (the manger having been set up in front of the chancel). The big plus to the pageant is the choir gets to dress down—no sitting in the loft in polyester robes and collars (or cassocks and surplices for the older members). But here they came, three groups of five each: three Cecelia girls and two older choir members from the junior/senior choir or the adult choir. Cecelia girls were in pale blue, older school kids in navy, adults in a royal blue that was almost black.
Ducky and I gasped at the same moment. Hands clasped before her and red-gold curls constrained by the wide white band that matched the separate oversized sailor collar of her robe, Lexi was a member of the last group.
Charlie leaned forward from her seat behind us. "She's been practicing with me when you aren't around," she whispered. "She wanted it to be a surprise."
It worked. The choirmaster, usually so crazed in practice, was absolutely decorous. He held up a hand and the first group rang out with sweet, pure a cappella notes: "Dona… nobis… pacem, pacem… dona nobis, pacem…" The second group took up the lyrics while the first went on to the second line, then on to the third, singing the canon as a round. Grant us peace, grant us peace, grant us peace… They sang for several cycles, then ended with the fifteen singing one round straight through together. A moment of silence—then, as they say, thunderous applause.
I looked past Ducky; beside him sat his mother, frail, fading and so very proud. Next to her, "Uncle Jethro," nodding and looking quite pleased. By my side, Ducky, carefully dabbing at his eyes and totally unembarrassed.
A hand on my arm made me jump slightly. Ziva. I had totally forgotten she was sitting next to me. Little linguist that she is, she knew the meaning of the words and her eyes were a bit teary, too. She gave me a small smile. "Thank you."
Two words said it all. I gave her hand a little squeeze. "You're welcome."
As I said, we've been through all the shows. Some good—some not so good.
And some… out of this world.
At one time, Lexi grumbled that from October through December when you go into the stores it feels like one big holiday mushed together. So, from Lexi and the rest of the family,
"Happy Hallogivemas!"
and see you for the next chapter-hopefully sooner than this last one posted. (Well, it was like 12 chapters posted at once; forgive me?)