The Little Drummer Boy Song

This morning Andrew and I sat down to breakfast at 1:30PM in our kitchen. We were feeling rather pleased with ourselves having trotted around the block for exercise and lifting a weight or two at the gym, and our reward was to build a breakfast smorgasbord filled with freshly baked bread, ham, cheese, butter, sugar coated preserves and coffee with heavy cream and pumpkin pie for dessert.

So there we were at the table, listening to Christmas music on Pandora using the Roku box I bought myself for Andrew’s birthday, and the Little Drummer Boy song begins to play.

Just as I announce, “I love this song,” Andrew blurts, “I hate this song.”

I’m appalled. What kind of Scrooge hates the Little Drummer Boy song?

I give Andrew a look that reads, “Explain yourself.” He doesn’t quite get nonverbal communications, so I follow the look with an audible, “What is your problem? Why do you hate Little Drummer Boy?”

While Andrew compiles his answer, I fondly remember a story from my own youth (er...young adulthood), which I’ll share with you now:

I was shopping with my mother shortly before Christmas when I was about twenty or so, and she was driving around like Batwoman with me in the passenger seat, searching every toy store for the noisiest, most obnoxious child’s Christmas present imaginable.

Shortly before we had left the house that day, I remember asking her why she was carrying a shopping list with things like “Drum Set, Cymbals, Child’s Flute, Electric Keyboard, etc.” on it.

My mother explained that she was going to “get” her brothers now that they’ve had children. She just kept saying that she was just going to “get” them and it would serve them right, etc. etc.

Not quite understanding how children’s toys are going to “get” her brothers, I later did a bit of investigating and discovered this: My mother has been forever involved in this (one-sided and mostly good natured) feud with her brothers, who’d apparently bought my brother and me the noisiest, most obnoxious children’s Christmas presents when we were children.

And so it was my mother's mission to buy my various uncles’ children the same, presumably so my uncles could derive the same enjoyment from the toys as she did.

So, as I’m at the breakfast table with Andrew remembering the drum set/noisy Christmas present story and thinking of Drummer Boy and listening to Drummer Boy and wondering what the heck Andrew’s problem is that he has to dislike drummer boy so much, Andrew finally blurts out, “Well, it’s just a dumb song.”

So I give Andrew a look of confusion, indicating with my expression that he should explain what he means by this. Andrew, oblivious to this nonverbal communication and thinking his a perfectly satisfactory explanation, resumes eating his luxurious breakfast. So I respond with my usual response, “Andrew, that is not a satisfactory explanation.”

What comes next is something those who know Andrew well will recognize. He takes a deep breath, rolls his eyes, and begins with, “So...”

Let me just interject here and tell you that when Andrew begins a sentence in such a way, a diatribe is imminent. And so started the diatribe:

“Alright look. I mean, how much sense does the Drummer Boy song *actually* make? You’ve got a little tiny baby, trying his hardest to sleep, which is what babies do, you know, fall asleep, or at least try to, and then there’s some obnoxious kid running around playing what? Not soft lullaby music to help the baby sleep, no, he’s playing a DRUM set. DRUMS. Little kids playing drums is not music, it’s just noise. I don’t know why anyone would write a song about a kid banging on some drums trying to wake the baby. That’s just stupid.”

Andrew looks at me expectantly (awaiting my wholehearted agreement) and I just start cracking up. I just can’t help myself. And so Andrew’s look of incredulity melts off his face and he starts laughing, too.

And as we’re laughing at that darn Drummer Boy drumming around waking up babies, I remember my mother’s story about the uncles, and the drum sets, etc. So to prolong the breakfast entertainment we’re providing ourselves, I thoughtfully append some additional funniness to Andrew’s diatribe by smartly saying, “Yeah, and I bet that obnoxious Little Drummer Boy got that noisy drum set from one of his dumb uncles LAST Christmas...

...

...oh....wait....nevermind.”

An Afternoon at Grandpa Roger's

So, we arrive at Roger's about 90 minutes after the wild-wild-west event begins. We park next to the house and leave the dogs in the car for a few minutes so that I can install Roger's uncooked pizza rolls from the Plymouth Picnic Basket directly into his refridgerator.

We stand outside the car, discussing what to do with the dogs.

Andrew says, "We should put leashes on the dogs."

I say, "I don't think that's necessary. It's a big property and there are lots of people and dogs running around. They don't need leashes."

So we walk up the hill to Grandpa's western town, and we're just in time for the pre-meal prayer.

Next, we stand near the crowd and bow our heads, and soon I hear Grandpa (who is quite near us) grumbling about something, trying to keep himself quiet during the prayer. I glance over at him. And he's pointing at MY dog (Johan), who has decided walk right over to the fencepost and pee on all the western clothes that Dave & Ada's descendants have bought, assembled and sewn for this wild-wild-west day occasion.

Then, with the prayer finished, the family members (of which there are many) begin to file into the dining lodge building (not sure what its official name is). And all of the sudden, our dogs are gone. GONE. Can't find 'em. Where'd they go? So I take a wild guess and saunter casually into the dining shack. There they are, following the numerous children through the buffet line.

Andrew and I grab the dogs and helpfully remove the them from the dining shack. Begrudgingly, they allow themselves to be dragged to the outdoors. The dogs are smacking their lips and each has an exceedingly triumphant look on his face.

Our goal becomes to keep the dogs from the dining lodge building, and those dogs aren't too pleased about that. So they promptly tell me exactly what they think about being dragged from that food by taking big huge dumps right next to where everyone is eating.

I begin shamefully walking down to the car, where we have some plastic bags for just such an occasion. Cubby decides to accompany me. I think, "How sweet, Cubby just loves me so much and wants to go wherever I go...he is such a sweet dog."

As we're walking down the hill next to the livestock corral, we hear a strange (and very loud) sound.

"Baaaaaaaah."

Cubby turns his head toward the livestock corral in slow motion and sees a herd of goats standing at the fence. Cubby's eyes come to life. His tongue immediately sticks out of his mouth, and then he looks up at me, as if to say, "Please, can I have those goats?"

I say, "Cubby, NO, you may not have the goats." He pretty much gives me the bird at that point, because he knows he's not on a leash and he knows I can't restrain him.

Cubby saunters slowly and bravely toward the electric fence, his head low to the ground, sniffing frantically. The goats are unphased. There is a fat black ringleader goat at the front of the pack, looking at Cubby with an attitude that says, "Bring it on, dog."

I'm screaming "Cubby, NO! NO! Bad dog! NO!" but he completely ignores me.

With that, Cubby explodes through the wires of the electric fence, not caring that his entire body is being shocked by God knows how many volts of electricity.

The goats move. The goats move fast. In fact, it is a stampede, with the black goat in front leading the pack, the other wimpier goats chasing the black goat, and Cubby chasing the whole pack. I feel huge gusts of wind as the animal train flies by again and again.

After many ridiculously speedy laps around the corral, the goats grow smart. They split up. The wimpy goats go one way, and the black goat goes another way. The next time Cubby flies into my sight, it's just him and the brave black goat.

Cubby finally catches up to the brave black goat. They are moving slower now, tired and sleepy after their marathon.

Cubby attempts to mount the brave black goat. He succeeds for about 2 seconds. The goat breaks free and runs faster than I've ever seen any animal run.

I shout for Cubby in my meanest voice to get out of that goat corral.

I'm not sure why Cubby chooses to listen this time, but he does. He electrocutes himself again coming through the fance, and then prances down the hill with me to get that plastic bag, as if nothing ever happened...