by Donna Poole
Saturday was the day, a monumental day at the Poole Hall.
It snowed! Huge, lazy flakes drifted down, and they whispered it was time for music.
I’d been wanting to play Christmas music for a while, but tradition must be observed. Poole Hall Rule: We do not play Christmas music until it snows.
However, some of the younger generation who grew up in the Poole Hall have wandered from the old paths. I’ve heard tell of three of our offspring playing Christmas music long before the first snow; yea, verily, upon one occasion, I witnessed the terrible transgression with my own ears.
I admit, I did enjoy hearing that too early Christmas music played in the home of one son who’d departed from his upbringing. I even suggested to John we also break with tradition and listen early, but he didn’t go for it. He did compromise a bit and say if it hadn’t snowed by the Friday after Thanksgiving, we’d start listening then.
I’m glad we didn’t have to wait that long.
When it started snowing Saturday, we put the phone where we could both hear the music and turned it up loud. John was studying for his Sunday sermon, and I was in the kitchen making desserts for the Community Thanksgiving Dinner.
I was definitely feeling thankful. Just a few days earlier I’d barely been able to walk because of the side effects from cancer treatment, but Saturday was a better day, and the music helped.
I hummed along in my usual off-key voice to the eclectic mix, “A Tennessee Christmas,” “Silent Night,” “White Christmas,” and then… I hollered.
“They’re playing my song!”
That’s not what John heard. He thought I’d yelled, “I cut my thumb!”
He came running to the kitchen. After we laughed and he returned to his studies, I hummed along with a tune I love, one Bing Crosby made famous, “Silver Bells.”
“City sidewalks, busy sidewalks,
Dressed in holiday style,
In the air
There’s a feeling
of Christmas.
Children laughing,
People passing,
Meeting smile after smile,
and on every street corner
You’ll hear
Silver bells, silver bells.
It’s Christmas time in the city.
Ring-a-ling, hear them sing,
Soon it will be Christmas day.”
I was two years old when Bing Crosby first recorded that song with Carol Richards on September 8, 1950. I grew up loving that tune, and I grew up loving bells. My favorite bell is the one at our old country church where John has been pastor for a long time. This will be Thanksgiving number forty-nine for us there.
Some people complain that Thanksgiving gets lost in Christmas and we should wait until we finish the one before we begin celebrating the other. We have a Poole Hall family tradition about that too; the Christmas tree and decorations go up the weekend after Thanksgiving.
But if people want to start celebrating Christmas early, why not? Why not ring all the bells and let all the lights shine? I wish bells rang on every street corner all year and people passing each other always met smile after smile.
If Thanksgiving and Christmas collide and twine around each other, let them hug. We can never be too thankful that Jesus Christ, God the Son, came to this dark world to light the way Home for us. And He did it by love. He loved us so much He died for our sins. All the lights and bells in the world aren’t enough to celebrate that!
We heard handbells ring Sunday night. Their sound makes me think of angels. We bundled up to attend a hymn sing at a church about forty-five minutes from home. It was a bitter cold night, but we felt warm and happy inside Bethel Church. Some of you may know my oncology team doesn’t want me to go into auditoriums, but I’m allowed to sit in entryways. This delightful church has an entryway larger than our entire church sanctuary, but the kind pastor and people make it feel country church friendly.
John and I sat in the entryway where we could see and hear everything; we didn’t feel isolated. We joined in singing the old hymns. We loved the special music, the handbells, the piano player who had, I believe, at least six hands, the vibrant youth worship team, and the quartet.
Ah yes, the quartet. “The Four Friends Quartet” used to sing often. The tall tenor is our son, Dan. Life became impossibly busy for the four friends, and they seldom sing together now. I smiled and cried my way through their songs. Who knows when I’ll hear them again?
Who knows when anytime may be the last time? A few days ago, we were talking about Christmas, and I was rattling on about something I hoped we could do. Kimmee, our daughter, just looked at me and smiled.
“What?”
“Mom, you’re still here!”
I grinned. “I know.”
This is the third Christmas I’m surprised to still be here. Maybe I’ll still be around when I’m one hundred years old. But when it’s my time to go, I hope I see lights and hear bells ringing. Maybe, just before I leave the people I love here, I’ll sing them the Bill Gaither song the quartet sang last night:
“If you want more happy than your heart will hold,
If you want to stand taller if the truth were told,
Take whatever you have and give it away.
If you want less lonely and a lot more fun
And deep satisfaction when the day is done,
Then Throw your heart wide open and give it away.”
Or maybe I won’t sing it. They don’t need to hear it. We already have so many givers in our family, so many wonderful people I love and admire, even the ones who transgressed tradition and played Christmas music too early. I think I’ll join them next year.
There really isn’t enough time to ring the bells, to string the lights, to play the music. We can’t give this dark world enough smiles or share too much hope.
Next year I might start a new tradition. It will be a monumental day at the Poole Hall when I play Christmas music on September first.
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These blogs are now available in book form on Amazon:
Backroad Ramblings Volume One: Stories of Faith, Love, and Laughter
Backroad Ramblings Volume Two: Stories of Faith, Love, and Laughter
