Caroling, Caroling.

The first Christmas performance I remember was in second grade. My class did some sort of reindeer song—Rudolph, I imagine. Mrs. Landures ran around the auditorium in an effort to teach us to prance. To her horror (but the delight of her students) her wig flew off and was trampled by many of us who pranced behind. The night of the program, in an effort to be as reindeer-esque as possible, I was putting red lipstick on my nose. Somehow a glob of it plopped on the front of my white shirt. I tried to wash it off but only made matters worse. Seeing how distraught I was, Mrs. Dow made a construction paper necktie for me. As a show of solidarity, she made the rest of the boys wear them, too.

When I got into high school, our choir would perform at malls and festivals around town. Remember the “Cottonwood Mall Singing Christmas Tree?” Without fail, Grandma Perry would be out in the masses, signaling her arrival with a flash of her camera. My classmates loved her and looked for her presence in every crowd.

One night, I called Grandma to get some details about that night’s family Christmas party. Pies were baked, Swedish meatballs were ready to go, presents were wrapped, but the Santa she hired every year to surprise the kids was sick and couldn’t make it. She was practically in tears. I told her not to worry, that everything would be okay. With a couple of phone calls I had a dozen or so classmates arrive at her front door that night. Grandma’s eyes, lit up like a camera flash and she ushered us all into the crowded living room where we gave the best, most heartfelt performance of the season.

In 1992, I joined the Salt Lake Men’s Choir. We were presenting our Tenth Anniversary Concert in Abravanel Hall. We hired a small orchestra, and adorned the stage with a small fireplace vignette and two soaring angel mannequins resembling Pam Dawber and Leslie Uggams. All in all, it was a stellar performance. Stellar, that is, but for one solo given by a tenor named George. He fancied himself as the reincarnation of Enrico Caruso and arrived at the hall in a limousine. He told us all that he had furnished the buffet in the green room for all of us. When the time came for his solo in “Still, Still, Still” he tugged at the scarf and grasped his throat. The back of his hand went to his forehead and he collapsed—right there on stage to the gasps of our largest audience ever. Amanda the emcee gasped, too, trying her best to think of what to say. A couple of basses grabbed him by the arms and dragged him off stage. They looked at Amanda and said “He does this all the time.”

This year, my sister-in-law has asked me to join her and some friends as they carol around the old folks’ homes. I imagine there will be lots of gasps and throat clenching there, too.