We left Boston on Christmas Eve in the midst of sporadic wind-driven rain. It was 1pm and the highways bustled with cars. We steeled ourselves for an arduous 7+ hour drive to Philadelphia. Mr. P drove and I fiddled with the radio to ensure a steady supply of Christmas music.
If it had been any other day of the year, the sound of a Christmas-themed tunes would have induced fierce scowling. Way back at the beginning of November, I happened upon a radio station that had already switched to an all-Christmas format. I flew into a rage, demanding “What is this shit?” I mean I love Christmas music, but how can anyone earnestly groove upon it 4 weeks before Thanksgiving? Taken out of context, the corny novelties and sanctimonious hymns of Christmas are about as agreeable as out-of-season berries.
Right before Thanksgiving, the Christmas decorations spurted up and the buzz about holiday shopping and parties began. I want to cover my ears and plead, “Too soon! Too soon!” Ideally Christmas would begin the week before Christmas. Now I know this is unrealistic. The American marketplace would be subject to chaos and pillaging if everyone bought their presents, trees, decorations, and food within a 6-day time period. People would suffer nervous breakdowns. The fact is, we have built up Christmas to such an event that a solid month of preparation is necessary to sustain its annual occurrence.
But Christmas music is not necessary, really, until Christmas Eve. As we headed to Philadelphia amid the festive red brake-lights and white headlights, I could sit back and sing along with Christmas chorals with genuine holiday joy. I crooned “Blue Christmas” with Elvis as we sped through Hartford, chirped “Sleigh Ride” with Bing across the Tappan Zee Bridge, and rasped “Santa Claus is coming to Town” with Bruce in New Jersey. It didn’t feel like I was inappropriately co-opting a holiday feeling. It felt like Christmas.
