Caroling Out in the Snow

     “We’re doing what?! There is NO WAY I’m coming! Everyone on the planet will make fun of me tomorrow!”
     “What do you mean, we go every year? I don’t remember ever going before! ”
     “The only people who even like it are grandparents and, like, old people!”
     I had just informed our kids that we were going caroling – as has been our annual custom for some years now – to deliver our homemade Christmas treats. Memories of caroling had remained intact with the younger kids, but the sudden onset of amnesia had rendered the older ones less fortunate. This amnesia divided the family into two camps: Torture Victims (eighth grade girl and sixth grade boy), and Torture Chamber Guards (Mom and Dad) and Assistants (first grade girl, preschool boy). The third grade boy planted himself firmly on the fence.
     The Victims had opinions. And suggestions.
     “Mom! Do you know how embarrassing it is for the teenagers who answer the door? They just stand there and don’t know what to do, so after a few seconds, they leave. It’s so awkward.” Translation: I’d rather die than stand on someone’s doorstep, singing Christmas carols with my family.
     “Why don’t we do what they did in the olden days? We can walk down the middle of the street, singing as loud as we can. People who hear will open their doors, listen, and we’ll give them a plate of cookies!” Translation: Nobody will ever hear because we’ll be singing as quietly as humanly possible. If anyone should happen to open a door or drive by, we’ll immediately pretend to be looking for lost items in the dirty, slushy snow in the middle of the road at night.
     The Assistants weighed in.
     “I love caroling! How many songs do we get to sing at each house? Do we get to take all these cookie plates?”
     “Can I ring the jingle bells?”
     The Fence-SItter had a question.
     "How long will this take?"
     I stood my ground. “We’re going caroling. End of discussion.” And felt it necessary to add a new rule: “No singing, no hot chocolate. Lip synching doesn’t count.”
     Jeff backed me up. “You’re all going caroling. We do it every year, and we’re doing it again this year.” He wanted that hot chocolate. And preferred our bed to the couch.
     We marched them into the Torture Chamber.
     First House: Cutest-Eighth-Grade-Boy-in-the-Middle-School answered the door, immediately regretting it. The look on his face clearly indicated that scrubbing toilets would have been infinitely preferable to being caroled at, especially since he was the only one home and had no socially acceptable retreat strategy. To his credit, he stood there gallantly through an entire chorus of Jingle Bells, accepted our plate of treats, and even managed to cough out a Thank You just prior to slamming the door shut. To keep out the cold, of course.
     Before even making it back to the car, the tirade began. “SEE! What did we tell you? That’s exactly what we were talking about! This is friekin’ embarrassing.”
     We remained undaunted, as Torture Chamber Guards must.
     Second House: No one home, a small mercy not overlooked by the Victims.
     Third House: Best Friend of Eighth Grade Torture Victim answered the door, began laughing, and never stopped until we departed.
     The Victim felt to defend her position. “Can you believe my parents are making me do this? We have to go to, like, every house in the entire neighborhood!” We had brought a total of six plates of goodies with us in the car. We weren’t heartless.
     Best Friend’s mom, with tears in her eyes, gushed. “This is so incredibly sweet! I love it! Thank you so much!” She was not a grandma. Or even an old person.
     In the Car Enroute to Fourth House: Torture Chamber Assistant began crying, embarrassed by laughter of Best Friend at House Number Three.
     Fourth House: Assistant choked back tears throughout the entire song. Both Sixth Grade Victim and Third Grade Fence Sitter tried to hide behind adults, pull hoods over eyes, and even lip synch (until being glared at by their mother, who hissed, “Hot Chocolate!”). Eighth Grade Victim sang resignedly. It sounded like one long sigh.
     Fifth House: Another Super-Cute-Eighth-Grade-Boy answered the door with a politely pained expression, but was soon rescued by his siblings and mother, who smiled and even danced to the music. The Boy made it a point to acknowledge Eighth Grade Torture Victim, thereby thwarting her plan to remain, like, completely invisible.
     Sixth House: No one home. There is a God in heaven.
     Every House: Four-Year-Old Angelic Boy, sleigh bell in hand, stood front and center, singing and jingle-belling his heart out. I can only hope that his is the one image people remember if they should ever recall the Angerbauers Caroling on their doorsteps that cold December night.
     Back home, I slammed the hot chocolate down in front of the Victims, secretly wishing that it just might scald a few selected throats. Oh well, there’s always next year for that.
     The Christmas carol “The Most Wonderful Time of the Year” has a line in it that has always seemed out-of-context and a bit strange. The phrase “caroling out in the snow” is immediately followed by “there’ll be scary ghost stories.”

     No longer a bit strange, or even out-of-context. I totally get it now.

     It’s meant to be a warning.