If we make it through December
Everything’s gonna be all right, I know
It’s the coldest time of winter
And I shiver when I see the falling snow
If we make it through December
Got plans to be in a warmer town come summertime
Maybe even California
If we make it through December, we’ll be fine. – Merle Haggard

“Your dad has other women.”

It was a snowy winter day in Ohio, I was in either 1st or 2nd grade, and I was enjoying one of my favorite winter activities, Christmas caroling with my school. The church school I attended was tiny, usually less than 30 students in grades 1-8, and caroling was one of the few Christmas traditions that we participated in.  Each winter before Christmas we’d spend a few weeks practicing the carols, which had been copied out of a songbook and stapled inside a construction paper cover, decorated with holly, berries, and glitter. Most times, half the students had red ones and half the students had green ones, and I did my best to make sure I had a red one. How could I be expected to sing tidings of comfort and joy if I had to carry one of the green song books? Even as a 6 year old, I knew the supremacy of the color red.

After a few weeks of practice, we’d be ready to take our show on the road and we’d leave school early to spend the afternoon caroling. Mostly we went to elderly neighbors and friends of people from our church, and mostly to the same ones, year after year. We’d all jump out of the vans that were transporting us and crowd around the front door. The teacher would ring the doorbell or knock on the door and then we’d start singing. It was always a joy to see the door slowly open and see the smiles appear on the faces of those we were singing to. It was impossible to not smile back. It was the kind of joy that made me forget my frozen fingers, and the snow that was slowly melting through the tops of my shoes and into my socks.

On this particular day, and at this particular moment, we were crowded on the creaky old porch of an exceptionally crusty old lady, Mrs. Rosie Thomas. I confess I do not remember all the details of her alleged crustiness; perhaps she did not bathe regularly, or maybe she had a tobacco habit, or perhaps we just judged her by the run down condition of her old house. I remember being half afraid of being there for some reason, and I’m not sure she ever opened the door to give us a smile and let us know she appreciated our efforts.

Mrs. Rosie Thomas had an outhouse and since the joy didn’t seem to be flowing on that porch so much, and the miserable cold was starting to soak in, I figured that was as good a time as any to run away for a bit and use the outhouse. As luck would have it, my best friend had the very same need, so away we went, abandoning our fellow carolers and giggling and dashing our way across the back yard to the outhouse. I do not remember what we talked about in there, I just know that in the last few seconds before we left the outhouse my friend uttered those words.

“Your dad has other women.”

Silence. The outhouse became as silent as a tomb buried under a mountain of snow.

I stared at her, blood rushing to my face.

“You’re a liar!” I yelled.

Not waiting for her to refute me, I threw open the outhouse door and ran back through the snow to join the carolers on the porch just in time for the final song. Every caroling session ended with a jolly rendition of “We Wish You a Merry Christmas.” My stomach was at my toes. No, it was in my throat. No, there was lead in my stomach. I was ill, about to throw up.

Go bring us some figgy pudding Mrs. Rosie Thomas.

We wish you a Merry Christmas Mrs. Rosie Thomas.

There wasn’t a song in the world merry enough to drown out the words that were ringing in my ears. I couldn’t escape them. And Mrs. Rosie Thomas was not bringing us figgy pudding any time soon.

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There are moments in life where time stands still, where blood runs cold, and the memories crystallize into hard shapes that no summer sun can melt. The story above is one those moments for me, maybe my first “memory crystal.” Even though I was too young (maybe six or seven) to understand exactly what those words meant, I was not too young to feel their impact. I know now that she was not lying that day, and I’m still learning to live with the impact of that truth.

Thank you for reading!