| When I was growing up,
Christmas meant family. Lots of family. Enough family
to populate a small town. After church services on Christmas Eve,
The Family, as I thought of it, would gather at the home
of Uncle Percy and Aunt Dorothy--elderly, infants, teenagers, newlyweds,
empty-nesters ... Montgomery kin of all ages. We packed that house
to the rafters with food, love and music. Oh, the music....
On Christmas Eve, the music flowed as freely as the chili and oyster stew. Dad's family was large, and all gifted with musical talent. Maybe they were born with it, or maybe it grew under the loving assumption that of course they could sing--they were part of the family. Aunt Janie's bell-like colatura soprano, Dad's brilliant tenor, Aunt Brick's warm alto, Aunt Bea's rumbling second tenor, Uncle Perc's rich baritone, Cousins Robbie and Lan stretching to fill the bass, Mom and sister Patty contributing second soprano...all the tradtional hymns a capella, in four to eight part harmony, voices blending and soaring. I remember the glistening eyes and clogged throats as their gazes met on the first song. At the time, I didn't understand. It was the absent voices they mourned, starkly evident in the missing harmony lines of their childhood; the gaps left by their parents, aunts, uncles and cousins now departed. But the holes never lasted beyond the first chorus as the next generation found its place in the family choir. Not replacing those who'd gone before, for the ache would always remain, but soothing the edges of grief and restoring the music--and the family--to completeness. As it should be. |
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