Ah, the Holiday season. A time to reflect upon the year. A time to think of others' needs - and the global economy. A time to argue about religion-specific identifiers (the Kwannakamas season, anyone?). A time to listen to incredibly annoying Christmas music on the radio 24/7 for an entire month.
This time of year always includes many trips home to visit my parents. And while these trips are often enjoyable, their association with Christmas isn't always a positive thing.
When it comes to traditions, my parents are what polite people would call driven."" I call them ""insane."" We don't just hang lights on a tree; we shower the poor conifer with hand-made ornaments and strings of lights so intense that they are visible from Jupiter. We have enough icicle lights on the eaves of our house to create an emergency runway.
But the biggest part of my parents' holiday tradition is the annual caroling party. Every year they collect a number of their like-minded friends, load up on scarves and eggnog and traipse through the neighborhood singing songs to neighbors, passersby and - if the eggnog is particularly strong - parked cars.
The problem with this practice is that due to the darkness, our state of slight inebriation and ambient factors, our lyrics don't usually match the musical versions. Usually, it's an issue of miscommunication about what precise tune we're doing: ""Deck the halls with boughs of holly / Over the hills and every-WHERE!"" Other times it's a simple case of forgetting the words entirely and substituting our own: ""Joy to the world, the king has come / Let somebody do something quite soon / Bum bum, ba bum, go Paaaa-ckers / Those guys sure ain't slaaaa-ckers...""
Of course, the lyrics must, on occasion, be changed intentionally to placate less receptive listeners: ""Hark! The herald angels sing / Don't shoot us, we're the next door neighbors / Peace on Earth and on this street / Put the gun down and we'll leave quick.""
After our faces are good and frozen (this can take from 10 minutes to three hours) we stumble our way back home to warm up and bask in the glory of our own vocal and social talents. Yea, as we have brought joy unto the cockles of our neighbors' hearts, may our own cockles be warmed. And we must drink unto the 'nog, lest we retain any memory of our embarrassing foray into the performing arts.
The worst part is that after belting out-of-tune carol after out-of-tune carol, radio stations force me to listen to the carols I just sang. Except they have electric guitars. Backup bands. And, you know, talent.
But, in the end, the Holiday season is worth all of the minor frustrations. I enjoy participating in our mass consumerism by purchasing or constructing trinkets of little intrinsic - but great sentimental - value. In my heart of hearts, I like seeing the smiles on strangers' faces as we pelt them with a chorus of ""Deck the Halls."" And, in all honesty, the getting presents part is pretty nice too.
But I have to go now; my parents are calling me and I need to stock up on the eggnog before I go out into the good night. Parked cars, here I come.
Keaton doesn't really understand the brouhaha about the naming of the holiday season. If some retailers want to call it the Holiday season and if others want to call it the Christmas season, who cares? Why don't we just calm down and call it ""BUY MORE STUFF, PLEASE, OK, THANKS SEASON?"" Or maybe it could be Wabbit season. E-mail him at keatonmiller@wisc.edu.
