SPECIAL TO THE SOMERS RECORD (12-15-16)
Last Sunday I joined with my Somers brethren and sistren in front of the Elephant Hotel to sing a few carols, have a sip of hot cocoa and let the lighting of the town Christmas tree officially usher in the holiday season.
To kick of the celebration they had a 6' ruler near the tree so you could take your kid's picture next to the tree, and see which one grew faster. If you come back in a couple years and your kid and the tree are the same size, I would adjust the potassium content in one or the others' fertilizer. The first time I read the town's email I thought it said six-inch ruler, which cracked me up and I don't even need a joke for.
The Girl Scouts were handing out hot cocoa, but the weather was a good bit chillier than I expected, and I would have offered a merit badge to anyone who could come up with something a little stronger, void where prohibited.
Rich and Harry with a couple guitars were leading the Christmas carols, and a Hanukkah tune here and there. We walked in a winter wonderland, slept in heavenly peace, made a list and checked it twice, ran over Grandma with a reindeer and wished you a merry Christmas, all within statistical margin of error of the correct key.
We sang "Deck the Halls," and as a songwriter, I am encouraged by the use of "Fa-la-la-la-la, la-la-la-la" in a high profile composition. I can't always find a word that rhymes with another word, and frankly I have other things to do than to sift through the alphabet all day substituting the first letter of each word to see if it rhymes with "orange." I have to feed the livestock, vacuum the front lawn, and try to find where my dog put my other sock. I'm satisfied that "La" rhymes with "Fa."
Then we all stood around watching the tree, waiting with bated breath, even though I took one of those breath savers that looks like a post-it note. The countdown commenced, THREE, TWO, ONE, and I thought that the tree might launch into outer space like at the end of most other countdowns. Instead, it shone gaily with a constellation of multicolored bulbs, some twinkling in the twilight.
Then Santa, escorted out by security, returned to his sleigh and headed back to the workshop, still plenty to do before the big day. I'm pretty sure I overheard the attending officer complaining about his SUV and telling Santa how good he has been this year. And that he was perfectly willing to overlook the fact that a sleigh and eight reindeer take up three parking spaces. Not to mention Blitzen, who didn't get the name for nothing, wobbling like he might have fueled up with that "wintery mix" that Santa brews out by the tool shed.
There are a lot of toys to make, plus Santa has to read all the mail. He has to decide who has been naughty and who has been nice, a subtle distinction that husbands are always trying to explain to their wives. It's got to be at least a twenty-hour sleigh ride to the North Pole, and you'd think he would just charter a plane or something. But hey, I don't pretend to have all the antlers.
Last Sunday I joined with my Somers brethren and sistren in front of the Elephant Hotel to sing a few carols, have a sip of hot cocoa and let the lighting of the town Christmas tree officially usher in the holiday season.
To kick of the celebration they had a 6' ruler near the tree so you could take your kid's picture next to the tree, and see which one grew faster. If you come back in a couple years and your kid and the tree are the same size, I would adjust the potassium content in one or the others' fertilizer. The first time I read the town's email I thought it said six-inch ruler, which cracked me up and I don't even need a joke for.
The Girl Scouts were handing out hot cocoa, but the weather was a good bit chillier than I expected, and I would have offered a merit badge to anyone who could come up with something a little stronger, void where prohibited.
Rich and Harry with a couple guitars were leading the Christmas carols, and a Hanukkah tune here and there. We walked in a winter wonderland, slept in heavenly peace, made a list and checked it twice, ran over Grandma with a reindeer and wished you a merry Christmas, all within statistical margin of error of the correct key.
We sang "Deck the Halls," and as a songwriter, I am encouraged by the use of "Fa-la-la-la-la, la-la-la-la" in a high profile composition. I can't always find a word that rhymes with another word, and frankly I have other things to do than to sift through the alphabet all day substituting the first letter of each word to see if it rhymes with "orange." I have to feed the livestock, vacuum the front lawn, and try to find where my dog put my other sock. I'm satisfied that "La" rhymes with "Fa."
Then we all stood around watching the tree, waiting with bated breath, even though I took one of those breath savers that looks like a post-it note. The countdown commenced, THREE, TWO, ONE, and I thought that the tree might launch into outer space like at the end of most other countdowns. Instead, it shone gaily with a constellation of multicolored bulbs, some twinkling in the twilight.
Then Santa, escorted out by security, returned to his sleigh and headed back to the workshop, still plenty to do before the big day. I'm pretty sure I overheard the attending officer complaining about his SUV and telling Santa how good he has been this year. And that he was perfectly willing to overlook the fact that a sleigh and eight reindeer take up three parking spaces. Not to mention Blitzen, who didn't get the name for nothing, wobbling like he might have fueled up with that "wintery mix" that Santa brews out by the tool shed.
There are a lot of toys to make, plus Santa has to read all the mail. He has to decide who has been naughty and who has been nice, a subtle distinction that husbands are always trying to explain to their wives. It's got to be at least a twenty-hour sleigh ride to the North Pole, and you'd think he would just charter a plane or something. But hey, I don't pretend to have all the antlers.
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