Sir Christopher Jiggs

December 21, 2018

Christmas caroling in the rain. You gotta love it. Apparently, Linda does, because that’s exactly what we did tonight in spite of her assurances that if it rained, the caroling would be called off. Fortunately, I was wearing my Carhartts and fedora, so the rain and I never actually met up close and personal. The grandkids did a great job, and if the candy and cookies we received are any indication, everyone was appreciative of our efforts.

Caroling has fallen out of style, it seems. Twenty years ago, our church would field a team of sometimes thirty people who trudged through snow and cold to sing to their neighbors. Not anymore. I must confess I groused a bit about singing in the rain. I liked it better when Gene Kelly did it. Linda insisted, and we had a good time. She makes me better than I am.

So did Sir Christopher Jiggs. When I was growing up, Christmas Eve was always spent at our cousins’ home in Canadaigua, NY. It was always a special event for us. Uncle Ray had this huge electric train set that ran around under the tree. I don’t know what gauge it was, but it was big enough that we kids could have ridden it. And the bubble lights! Our tree was festooned with the ordinary colored lights that everyone had. But they had bubble lights! 

We always arrived in late afternoon and feasted on Aunt Marion’s lasagna before bundling up to go caroling. We had perhaps 45 minutes to wait while Uncle Ray took our cousins to Christmas Eve Mass at the big Catholic Church at the end of their street. The Baileys weren’t much for church at the time, so this was a minor annoyance as we were itching to get out for the caroling. 

My cousins lived on a cul de sac at the top of a hill overlooking the village, a street of perhaps a dozen houses. We hit the house next door first, and when we were done, they joined the chorus at the next house. So it went, up one side of the street and down the other, cajoling and adding singers at each house till the entire neighborhood had joined in the festivities. About a third of the way back down the other side of the street, Sir Christopher Jiggs would always join us, his penetrating baritone ringing out over the rest of our voices. No matter that he was just a basset hound. He loved the singing, and joined in lustily. When we finally got to the end, having gone up one side and down the other, we plowed through whatever snow had accumulated on the hillside to get to the Witherspoons in the big house at the bottom of the hill, where we would be treated to hot chocolate and cider and cookies. We would gather around the grand piano in the parlor and sing once more before hiking back up the hill to our homes. 

Caroling like that is just a memory anymore, but it is kindled anew when we take the grandkids out around the village. We don’t get to as many homes these days and my aunt and uncle and that neighborhood are long gone. But when we sing, in my mind we are gathering up the tradition of caroling long ago, joining our voices in the same familiar songs, and if I listen carefully, I can hear the joyful baying of Sir Christopher Jiggs leading the chorus.