“Mommy popped the popcorn and we’ll string it on the tree!”
While some of you may have thought that’s a mystery phrase on $20,000 Pyramid — a popular 1970s game show — with host Dick Clark, it was actually the first line of the title track on Loretta Lynn’s inaugural Christmas album, “Country Christmas.”
When those energetic words — along with the accompanying upbeat music — emitted from the speakers on the stereo, which was situated in a corner of the dining room, these Price kids knew it was getting mighty close to the magical moment when Jolly Old Saint Nicholas would be coming down the chimney with presents of all shapes and sizes.
And since the country legend’s eighth solo studio album was released a mere two months after I arrived on planet earth, I’d been listening to it for practically my entire life.
It’s a wonder we didn’t wear out the vinyl record, because we listened to it nearly every single day — sometimes multiple times a day — between Thanksgiving and Christmas, year in and year out.
We would sing each and every song — word for word — on both sides of the aforementioned recording with the coal miner’s daughter, whether we were browsing through the J.C. Penney Christmas catalog, baking an array of holiday cookies with Mom, or, especially, when it was time to decorate the Douglas fir standing in front of the living room picture window.
With the air filled with the joyous harmonies of the songs we sang, making every corner of our home feel even cozier and more magical, these moments, rich with tradition and love, created a tapestry of memories that would be cherished for a lifetime.
Since the mercury inside the thermometer dipped into the teens, coupled with a cold front sweeping across Lake Erie that produced the first snowfall of the season, this mild-mannered eighth grader finally battened down the hatches inside the garage attic hideout to move his manual typewriter into the guest room — a makeshift creative space — to continue cranking out a plethora of short stories that first Saturday in December.
Upon hearing Loretta Lynn’s high, flinty voice penetrate through the beveled glass door with its attached frilly antique white lace curtain, I kept time with the music as my fingers danced across the keys like the ivories of a Steinway upright, bringing back vivid memories of taking piano lessons during elementary school.
However, I knew the spirited music was an unfortunate distraction upon glancing down at the sheet of typing paper wrapped around the cylindrical rubber roller.
“Last year I hung my stockin’ by the chimney, and ole Santa didn’t bring me anything.”
Jumping Jehoshaphat!
Shortly after realizing I had just typed out the opening lyrics to the popular singer-songwriter’s “To Heck with Ole Santa Claus,” I blurted out my frustration for the peculiar situation, “I’m not going to get any writing done with that music blasting through the entire house; so, if I can’t beat’em, I might as well join’em.”
As I bolted down the narrow corridor past my parents’ bedroom on one side and the powder room on the other, my little sisters shouted out in unison, “They’re back with the Price family Christmas tree.”
Chalk it up to perfect timing.
Just as the blond-haired minister and his firstborn son trudged through the main entrance with snow-covered boots, carrying a plump six-and-a-half-foot pine tree, the stay-at-home mother came down the enclosed L-shaped staircase with several boxes of vintage tree bulbs, Christmas lights and a hefty spool of gold tinsel.
I took a break from the creative writing process at a most opportune time.
“Let me lighten your load, Mom,” I suggested, carefully removing the top cardboard box from the Leaning Tower of Pisa. “It’s a wonder you didn’t tumble down the steps like me with all those boxes stacked up to the ceiling, totally blocking your line of sight.”
Don’t you know, I’ve got eyes in the back of my head?
You’re a woman of many talents… and apparently, x-ray vision too!
“There’s about six inches of snow already on the ground,” announced John with eyes as big as saucers, while helping to set the conifer in the tree stand. “If it keeps snowing like this, we’ll hopefully have a snow day on Monday; but if not, there will at least be a two-hour delay.”
Hopefully, it snows continuously until Monday morning.
“Bite your tongue, young man!” quipped Dad, upon standing to make sure the evergreen was in the right position. “After we finish decorating the Christmas tree, I need you boys to help shovel the sidewalk and the church steps; but if this weather keeps up, we’ll be repeating the process in the morning.”
On second thought, maybe the snow will stop by midnight.
After our parents finished wrapping the oversized bubble lights, which came in a variety of colors, around the entire tree, these high schoolers draped the gold tinsel across the many bristly branches from top to bottom before helping the excited girls hang scores of antique glass bulbs about the spectacular living room showpiece.
We were like the little engine that could chugging along up the mountainside until we reached our destination — a fully decorated Christmas tree.
Once Kathleen turned Loretta Lynn’s Country Christmas album over to side “A” as the title track began to play, she came bounding back into room and asked, “Can we pop some popcorn and string it on the tree?”
“I’ve got an even better idea,” stated the dark-haired brunette, while threading a metal hanger through the crotchet hook of a glittery glass bulb for her youngest child — Michele. “While the boys are helping your father shovel snow, we’ll pop some popcorn and string it on the blue fiber-optic Christmas tree downstairs in the basement.”
Now, you’re speaking my language!
Immediately after the Bible scholar placed the angel on top of the aptly decorated Douglas fir and plugged in the lights, I snatched the Santa hat from among the empty cardboard boxes to play the part of the Big Man in Red; and my younger siblings, imitating reindeer, led the way around the dining room table, with Loretta Lynn’s voice providing the inspiration for our impromptu demonstration.
“Oh, you better watch out, you better not cry, you better not pout, I’m telling you why, Santa Claus is comin’ to town.”
As the last notes of Loretta Lynn drifted through the house and the snow kept piling up outside, our living room glowed like something out of a Christmas postcard — bubble lights humming, gold tinsel shimmering, and three kids spinning through the dining room in a Santa-led parade.