A Musicians' Holiday

The programmable doorbell plays “Jingle Bells” as, one by one, we all come tumbling through Mom and Dad’s front door in the early afternoon of December 25, juggling gifts, bags, kids and covered dishes.

I usually show up with Nana, my nimble 101-year-old grandmother, since she lives not too far from me, and there’s plenty of room in my kid-free car. She always says, “I’ll just wait for you down in the lobby,” and there she is, standing by the main entrance as I invariably arrive late to fetch her (a special circle of hell awaits me, I know).

The younger nieces and nephews, ten in all, tumble downstairs where the toys and ping-pong table are; the adults, as many as eighteen of these, settle into the living room or clog up the kitchen.

I cherish my time with my big musical family, especially on a holiday where music plays a starring role. I’m the second of six kids, all musicians, some of us married to musicians as well. Yes, Mom and Dad are musical too, and so is Nana, who’s played piano since about 1920 when she started up a dance band with her brothers.

People enthuse, “Wow! Your family gatherings must really be something!” Well, sure.

The exhausted church musicians among us head straight for the coffee, like marathoners staggering across the finish line, or for the spiked eggnog and a nap. We see each other infrequently, so there’s a lot of the usual stuff to talk about–jobs, houses, cars, kids, trips–and the only music likely to be tolerated during the before-dinner visiting period is off the family heirloom holiday LPs: Fred Waring and his Pennsylvanians, or the Carpenters (we prefer Vol. 1).

After the feat of dinner has been accomplished, the sanctioned musicmaking can begin. There’s the annual battle royale of the “Nutcracker Suite” piano duets. Bill and Kristin always win hands down, as it were, but it’s unfair since they’re married to each other and get to practice. Nieces and nephews sing. Aunts and uncles–my siblings–raise once-familiar band instruments to unsteady lips. I decide it’s the perfect time to pass around the three or four accordions I brought with me. I take seriously my prerogative–indeed, my duty–as a childless accordion-playing uncle to encourage eccentricity and volume. Nana and the great aunts, Jeanne and Antoinette, smile from across the room, a safe distance.

We’ve always sung carols together at the end of the evening, but this year I think we sound especially fine with a good strong squeezebox accompaniment. We read from the dog-eared and mismatched songbooks; even though we could easily close our eyes and sing it all by heart, it’s a comforting and pedantic old habit of ours. We’re people of the songbook.

And then all too soon it’s over. It’s been a long day, and the kids, flushed with sugar and overstimulation, step to the brink one by one, their parents trailing not far behind. Gifts and dishes are bagged up with efficiency, carloads are herded to the door. I pack up the accordions and can’t help feeling a little irrelevant as I help tie shoes and zip up coats.

Heading back home via Nana’s apartment, I ask her if she’s had a good time. “Oh yes. It’s fun. All the music, you know. But it’s a bit lonely too.” Lonely? “Well, all the people I know are gone.” She smiles, daring me to disagree. But I understand. Papa, her piano duet partner of 53 years. Elmer and Cliff, two of her many brothers and my earliest crazy-musician-uncle role models. Everyone in her big musical family gone except her. I ask about each of them, and listen with loving attention, knowing these stories are mine too. And knowing these moments with her are the sweetest holiday gift of all, saved for last.

Published in the December issue of MN Orchestra's Showcase magazine, ©2007.