Instead, this transition is more insidious due to its slow, and some would say stealth-like approach. In some cases, it may take years to fully manifest itself. The process begins in seemingly random and I am certain, sneaky fashion, perpetuated by parents and grandparents, with the occasional aunt or uncle dragged along for good measure. The transition? The slow and laborious change from toys under the Christmas tree, to clothing or other so-called "practical" gifts. No more Tonka trucks, chemistry sets, or Mr. Potato Heads. Instead, socks, pants, and the occasional packs of underwear begin to show up - things we are deemed to need, rather than to covet . . . Is there any more damning words to a child than "we thought you might need this?"
Though traumatized by my own transition from the safe and comfortable world of "wanting" something, to the harsh and cold reality of "needing" something, I have moved on in many ways. Most importantly, because I work in a school environment, the holidays hold a special meaning for me now - ultimately, even more satisfying than my former days of "want." For, in a school, there is nothing more exciting and fulfilling than the annual holiday concert.
This year, the holiday concert has even more of a special meaning for me. Due to the lack of a separate area for music in our school, the students in Mr. Burris' music classes conduct their rehearsals in the multi-purpose room just around the corner from my office. As a result, I have experienced each and every one of their rehearsals from their inception. Though I must admit their progress as singers and musicians to this point is remarkable, the road to the concert has not been without its share of bumps and rough spots.
Imagine if you will, kindergartners through sixth grade students not only learning to sing together in their various grades and groups, but also learning to play the recorder - though not at the same time. The variations in pitch, sound, and ability are staggering to ponder - and to listen to . . . From the high-pitched, near tweaking sounds of the kindergartners, to the roller coaster-like ups and downs of beginners playing the recorder, through the pre-pubescent voice changes of fifth and sixth grade boys, I have heard it all this year.
While I have strained at times to find hope for the future harmonies of "Rudolph the Red-Nosed Reindeer", I can only admire Mr. Burris' efforts as their teacher. As I close the outer doors to the multi-purpose room and think seriously about purchasing a set of Bose headphones to drown out the sometimes withering sounds of first-time recorder players, I once again admire the commitment and hard work of music teachers around the world - and especially Mr. Burris. If I'm ever asked to vote for sainthood for anyone, every music teacher I have ever known will be right at the top of my list . . .
Despite the closed doors and threatened headphones, and despite the early renderings of the old favorites that force us to question just which season they are singing about, by concert time, all of the hard work by teachers and students inevitably pays off. With voices in tune, recorders responding dutifully, and Mr. Burris looking more relaxed than at any time during rehearsals, I have no doubt that Rudolph and the Dreidel song could ever sound better.
Everyone has their own special memories and feelings about the holidays. For me, next to being with my family, nothing says the holidays more than hearing the children singing. There's just something about seeing - and this year, hearing - all their time and effort bear fruit. Though my brain will forever be infused with the tunes they practiced daily - including the phrase, "You're a mean one, Mr. Grinch!" - it all fades away while sitting and listening to their actual performance.
Finally, unlike the afore-mentioned holiday traumas, the holiday programs in a school are something I both "want" and "need" to add to spirit of the season. However, I'm still hoping for one of those remote-controlled helicopters under the tree this year. I really want it . . .
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