by Al Drinkle
“So, are you all ready for Christmas?”. I hear this question several times each day, but I really don’t know how to answer. Over many years, Christmas has ceased to be a time of religious ambiguity, intimidating social expectations, irrational avarice and the braving of perilous winter roads—it’s now simply the first glorious day off in a long, long time. But despite my incomprehension of what preparing for it might consist of, a recent event made me feel very Christmas-y.
My retired parents relocated back to Calgary earlier this year, and my mother has since joined a non-denominational vocal choir. With the blessing of my colleagues, I took an afternoon away from the shop last week in order to attend her choir’s Winter Concert. So on a frigid December afternoon, I found myself standing outside of a church, puffing on the chalice and hoping that I wouldn’t burst into flames upon stepping inside.
I sat down next to my 91-year-old grandmother as the ensemble filed onto the stage. My mother appeared to love the whole thing and it occurred to me that I hadn’t seen her in such a role since I was a child. After decades of immersing herself in the interests of her children and grandchildren, it was wonderful to see her pursuing extracurricular activities of her own. Partway through, I was struck by a hilarious memory.
The year was probably 2007 or 2008, the setting some filthy alley behind a dubious punk bar—it’s hard to be specific because this kind of scenario played out several times over the years. My band was going on stage soon, and a couple of friends and I were draining bottles of wine behind the dumpsters. Not far down the alley, I spotted a familiar vehicle and upon inspection, discovered a middle-aged couple sleeping inside.
The slumbering couple was my parents who had stayed up several hours past their bedtime in order to watch me punish the eardrums of a roomful of rowdy drunks. Not to be deterred by our delayed start time, they opted to catch a quick nap in their car before descending into the chaos. The tables having turned, all I had to do to watch my mother perform was to sit back in a cozy chair and let the sonorous harmonies wash over me.
It might have been the buzz, it might have been the memories, or it might have been continuing the tradition of supporting family members in their musical pursuits… probably all three, but there were a couple of moments when I felt my eyes get a bit wet. And now when I’m asked if I’m “all ready for Christmas”, I can confidently answer in the affirmative.
