Caroling,
a time-honored tradition contemplated with fondness and nostalgia can, in
reality, be an exhausting ordeal for the carolers as well as the carolees. One
December, many moons ago, my husband cleaned up our big old farm truck so the
young parents and children from our church could brighten that wintry evening
for the elderly and shut-ins. Bundled
against the frosty air, we clambered into the back of the truck. Some of the
less agile women and children had to be lifted by a few of the husky men and
pitched into the bed, still smelling of manure--the truck, not the women and
children. Then my husband revved up the motor and off we lurched into the
starry night, singing merrily.
As
our crowd of carolers overwhelmed the smaller homes and apartments, some of the
shut-ins had to be assisted out of their cozy chairs, or warm beds (at least
one was down for the night, or so they’d thought) to stand on frigid porches,
leaning on canes, clutching a shawl to their shoulders, to smile and wave,
expressing their pleasure that yet another group brimming with Yuletide cheer had remembered them. I
wondered if they later requested that the church remove their names from the
list of shut-ins.
Those
individuals with ample room invited us in for refreshments, insisting we share
the trove of cookies we and other groups had brought them. It wasn’t long
before the children launched into sugar highs and we adults, who hated to
disappoint our hosts, began to feel rather ill from all the treats we’d
consumed–worsened by the jouncing truck.
And
then there was the problem with our route. Not having planned it very
efficiently, a member of our zealous band would suddenly remember some
neglected soul across town which meant a long chilly ride in the teeth of the
biting wind. Despite our exhaustion and rising queasiness, we felt compelled to
push ever forward, dragging our fussy children along, to bring the joy of
Christmas at last to the needy folk in the nursing home.
As
we trooped up the hall, I overheard one elderly resident, weary but resigned,
comment, “We’ve had carolers every night this week.”
And
that, my friends, is the last time I ever went caroling. But for those of
you who insist on this holiday undertaking, I suggest giving your route some
thought beforehand, limit the number of homes you visit. Here’s a wild
thought, maybe even call ahead to see if people actually want carolers. I
don’t, unless you’re wearing costumes like the ones in A Christmas Carol and sing those lovely Old
English tunes. Also, find some other transport besides the
back of a freezing cold farm truck, and bring treats you actually want to
eat because they will be offered to you.
And God
Bless us everyone.~
For
historical romance lovers, my new Christmas novella set in colonial America, A Warrior for Christmas, is now out.
Story Blurb:
Reclaimed
by his wealthy uncle, former Shawnee captive Corwin Whitfield finds life with
his adopted people at an end and reluctantly enters the social world of 1764.
He plans to return to the colonial frontier at his first opportunity--until he
meets Uncle Randolph's ward, Dimity Scott.
Deaf since a childhood bout of Scarlet fever, Dimity Scott intends to be
cherished for herself, not her guardian's purse, even if it means risking
spinsterhood. Then the rugged newcomer arrives, unlike any man she's ever known.
Dimity has learned to manage her silent world, but unaccustomed to the dangers
of the frontier, can she expect love and marriage from Corwin, who longs to
return to his Shawnee life?
