Wrinkly Bits
A Blog by Cowboy Bob and Cowgirl Gail
“Pa rum pum pum pum.” Whew, the drums are beating. On the twelfth day of Christmas, my true love gave to me, twelve drummers drumming. “Pa rum pum pum pum.” It’s enough to make me crazy. Finally, the last days of Christmas and I can banish this song until next year and go on to the actual meaning of Christmas Eve.
Christmas Eve is special, no matter how many years ago (damn near a century) I waited as a young child for it to arrive so we could open presents. You know, the red wagon and Lincoln Logs, for my younger brother, the new penny loafers and a doll for me, an erector set for my older brother. I recall the noise and excitement of ripping open brightly colored paper wrapping amid the laughter and the smiles of my mom and dad as they sat and watched. I recall avoiding the traditional oyster stew that only one brother and my dad liked but it was tradition. The smells of the real tree, yummy eggnog, lights, and small Creche at the bottom of the tree lie vivid in my memory chip. Grandparents dropped off their gifts (I don’t recall what they gave my brothers, but I could count on Grandma for a fresh roll of four-cent stamps for my letter-writing hobby).
“Pa rum pum pum pum.” Cowboy reminded me that he wants to attend two Christmas Eve services, the first at St Olaf in the foothills and later at our home church in Absarokee. Seems like an overkill to me as I ponder all the things I need to do, like finish this blog. But he smiles, “Little Drummer Boy, you know, the song, Pa rum pum pum pum. Two services, five verses each and there you go, twelve drummers drumming,” as he walks out to Big Red and warms up the truck so we can ride the miles to St. Olaf. “Whatever,” I mutter, half-aloud.
I have been attending Christmas Eve church services forever; I am a bit grumpy as to an extra session of hymns and crowded pews. The ride to St Olaf is beautiful, although Cooney Reservoir is a bit low even with recent rains and snow, so the gravel roads up Red Lodge Creek are without dust. The Beartooths, newly shouldered with snow, look over these rolling hills. Cowboy points out his old ranch as we pass. “Never should have sold it,” he says as he passes the old place, “But you can’t go back. It was a good place.” We park in our usual spot by the St. Olaf outhouses which are rumored to house hibernating snakes (not my pa rum pum pum pum), and join the crowd walking in, young and old, lots of kids, making me smile and I start to loosen up. Cowboy nods to many people he knows and to my surprise, I was greeted by “Hi, Gail, I read your stuff in the Stillwater County News. Merry Christmas,” from a young lady with several small kids and that adds to my day. A packed church, piano-playing accompaniment, and Christmas songs I knew from memory filled the old church, and soon we filed out.
We joined our home church in the last hours of daylight, as evening fell. We sat in our regular pew and sang all the old carols for a second time that day. I felt a peace and calm when the candles were lit, the church lights dimmed, and I sang Silent Night, holding hands with Cowboy. And I remember for what I wait, “For unto us a child is born.” Pa rum pum pum pum. Merry Christmas!
