Christmas Salad

Written by a friend of Tricia and John Lyndon

Christmas Salad 

Are you ready for Christmas, she asked

Meaning what, he wondered.

But he said, I think so 

And she was very impressed

But he couldn’t figure out why.  

His sister said

Jesus is the reason for the season

But it must also be a lot of other things

Like the winter solstice

And memories of Christmases long ago   

And all those lights and cameras and action 

And the herd instinct of the collective

And consumerism run amuck 

And a good reason to have a party

But what’s cause and what’s effect? 

He thinks it’s good for everyone to do their part

So every year he works on a Christmas playlist

A holiday spectacular of epic proportions

Four hundred sixty-four songs so far, 

Twenty-eight hours of holiday extravaganza.

Listen to this:

Song number eighty-eight was written in 1865 

By William Dix 

Of  Bristol, England:   

“What child is this
Who lay to rest
On Mary's lap is sleeping?
This is Christ the King
The Babe, the Son of Mary” 

And the great Louis Prima of New Orleans   

Singing in 1936 -  

“What will Sany Claus say
When he finds everybody swingin’?
What will Sany Claus say
When he hears that sing, sing, singin’?”

And number ninety

From Jewish Russian-American Irving Berlin

Writing during World War Two

“I'm dreaming of a White Christmas
With every Christmas card I write
May your days be merry and bright
And may all your Christmases be white”

And on and on 

From Ave Maria and Oh Holy Night 

To Merry Christmas Baby, 

You sho’ did treat me right.

What an intoxicating brew,   

The soundtrack

For the most sacred and most secular of all the holidays,

And the most democratic

And the longest 

And the grandest,

That transcends space and time 

Combining astronomical events

With pagan rituals

And Christian traditions

With gifts and fireworks and pizzazz. 

Are you ready for Christmas, she asked.

But how could he be?

There’s no getting ready for Christmas.

It’s a tidal wave,   

A winter hurricane

That’s been building for thousands of years 

That grabs you by the scruff of the neck

Sometime in November

And hurls you all the way across December 

And into the New Year.

There is danger, no doubt

This time of year,  

And some will be lost in the flood,

But there’s also joy and love 

And warmth and friends

And myth and mysticism and magic

And freedom to choose

Which Yuletide waves to ride  

And which to refuse.