Ah Christmas. So many traditions, so many memories! As I sit here, in the midst of finally decorating my apartment, one by one my favorite Christmas memories are returning to me.
The first memory of Christmas past came to mind when I opened up my Christmas tin of decorations. I was greeted by the aroma of cinnamon. Now, to many of you this is a "warm" scent, one that reeks of Christmas and the cold weather/warm house, boughs of holly, blah blah blah. When I smell cinnamon, I gag a little, then laugh. Why? Well, it all stems back to one cold day about 14 years ago, when I was a poor child of only 9. I know that I was 9 because I was wearing my Christmas sweater with the stocking on it, and the stocking made a pocket. I don't remember ever having any other themed Christmas clothing, but I really liked that sweater.
Anyways, I digress. (Greg and Keri, stop laughing at how I tell my stories!) We were at Kooks' house making all sorts of Christmas goodies. I can't remember all of what was baked that day, but I do remember the cinnamon hard tack candy. As all good cooks will do, the recipe was being followed to create a masterful work of confectionary bliss, when a certain family member decided that the two drops of cinnamon flavoring called for was not enough. I am not 100% sure of all the events that followed, but I do know that extra flavoring was added to the mix and the house was filled with the overpowering aroma of cinnamon. I couldn't take the scent, so I kept moving around the house trying to find just one place that didn't reek of the strong scent that was plaguing my nostrils. Finally, I couldn't take it anymore and I went to an open window and pressed my face against the screen so that I could inhale the cold, crisp air coming from outside. Obviously I survived this traumatic event, and my mom tries to convince me that it wasn't as bad as I make it out to be. But to this day, whenever I smell cinnamon anything I can feel the metal screen pressing on my nose and an overwhelming urge to get away from the offending object. I do laugh too, because, let's face it, it's just a funny situation, and ultimately it reminds me of all the fun times I have had with my mom and my aunts.
It is freezing cold in Summerville right now, so it finally felt right to turn on some Christmas tunes. As the same old songs started playing, they sounded so nice! Finally, for the first time in over two months, something familiar that made me feel like I was "home" and not a stranger in some far away place. Heck, I don't even mind the super annoying versions of Rudolph the Red-Nosed Reindeer and Jingle Bells as sung by Dean Martin and Frank Sinatra, respectively. (But if I hear Dominic the Donkey, I WILL go insane!) The second song I heard tonight was a lovely piece by Kenny Loggins entitled, "Please Celebrate Me Home." Now, I wasn't particularly touched by the message or anything. On the contrary, I laugh all the way through this song, or more specifically, my version of this song. I am not a good singer by any stretch, so I never sing in front of other people if I can help it. I don't even sing in my apartment on the off chance that my neighbors should be able to hear me through the walls. But this song, I sing. Always. And like I said, it is MY version that I enjoy singing.
Once upon a time, when I was 16, I was in Medina with my mom and siblings. We were in the van (I loved the van. Kacy killed it.) driving by Farmer's Exchange when the song came on the radio. All through my life I had in mind what the song was about, but at 13, I decided that the lyrics I sang had to be incorrect. (This was the time before the Homonai's had an internet connection, so I had never thought to Google the lyrics.) Finally at 16 I knew that I had to be wrong and it was time to set the record straight. So I spoke up and said, "I know what I am about to say is wrong, but I can't help it. I know he's not singing, "We celebrate meatballs," but that's all I can hear. What is he really singing?!" Being the loving, supporting person that she is, my mom did not snicker at my comment. She gave me a "What the heck?" look and started laughing very loudly! When she stopped laughing, she explained the actual lyrics as the song continued. I accepted her explanation of the lyrics, but to this day when I hear this version of the song, I sing happily "We...celebrate meatballs. Give me a number one....." I know I am wrong, but I am content in my wrongness. (Which surprisingly, Google spell check is accepting as a word!) As a side note: It only sounds like this until the choir starts singing. They have better enunciation than Mr. Loggins, so I understand them. Also, Reuben Studdard released his version of this song, and it is horrible, because there is no imagining lyrics about meatballs when he sings because he too has relatively good enunciation.
There are many more Christmas memories that I could write about, and want to write about, but Cooper is apparently having difficulty chewing his rawhide and I need to assist him before he chokes. That reminds me of another good story about Kacy's psycho cat eating almost three feet of ribbon one time. In any case, sleep tight, and tomorrow when you wake up begin lobbying your local radio stations to replace Harry Connick Jr.'s cheesy renditions of Christmas songs with the heavenly sounds of Michael Buble's Christmas songs. Because we all know that Michael Buble is the best singer ever.
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